Archive of Our Own ^beta

The kid is an absolute nightmare, Franky decides. Which is saying a lot, considering the kind of nightmare he personally was as a kid. Not that he regrets it- he’s always been a real firework of a guy, can’t help but push himself to be as loud and honest as he can, and sure it’s gotten him into trouble, but if he can’t live proud he’ll die that way.

Franky’s not so sure this kid wants to live at all.

He’s still hunched over by that ship, hammering away, breaths coming shaky and harsh. Head to toe in bandages, damp with sweat and sea water from who-knows-what, clearly haven’t been changed in days. (Does he have supplies? Did his friends leave him with enough to patch himself up? Was it some kind stranger who took pity on him? Does he even want to know?) Still, steady as a heartbeat, that thud, thud, thud of the hammer, like it’s the only thing left in this world he still knows how to do right. 

And he’s scared- the kid is scared, is the thing.

Franky knows scared. Probably not enough in Iceburg’s opinion, or in many people’s- but he knows it. It’s that feeling that settles cold in your chest, makes your feet plant themselves where they are, freezes your brain as you stare and think, why is this happening to me? How is this fair? How do I even begin to survive this?

In his own experience, that usually involves either getting hit really hard or tearing himself apart. The kid looks like he’s had enough of both.

Franky isn’t sure what to do with him now. He offered tea, was refused. He offered to get rid of the problem, was refused. He offered the cold, hard truth, and again- refused. There was more yelling, after the reveal of the klabautermann, more arguing, but it’s since died down without any true resolution after Franky realized how tired he was from all that crying and fighting and was it even worth it when this guy was so fucking stubborn?

(Fuck, was he like this? Good thing he’s not nearly as stupid as he used to be.)

The one thing Franky has offered that wasn’t refused was shelter, which, hey, fine. He’s happy to share this little shop until the storm dies down. It’s always weird being in here, ‘cause he can’t quite shake the cozy home feeling he gets whenever he pays it a visit. It makes it that much easier to sit and doze while the kid works, letting the thud, thud, thuds wash over him in a way that isn’t really the right rhythm to be nostalgic but still makes him feel less ready to go on a rampage.

Franky will never be accused of thinking too much. He’s proud of that. So right now, he’s not thinking- he’s feeling. Angry, of course, always- sad, because of the guy nearby- tired, because if he’s honest- and he always is- it’s been a long week.

The house is gone, thanks to the kid’s ex-friends, and the Family is licking their wounds. Not their first rodeo, won’t be their last, but he really hates it when he can’t protect his own.

(Fire, guns, “No matter what happens don’t interfere,” blood, screams, so much blood-)

Hates it so fucking much.

Maybe that’s what has his blood boiling with this kid. He’s too passionate, too hurt, for Franky not to want to do something for, fix his problems if he can, punch them into shrapnel if he can’t. 

(What kind of heartless bastard abandons someone just because they’re a little hot-headed, huh?)

The whole situation is prickly, not Franky’s strong suit. Full of complex thorns that take precision to navigate around. Those kinds of things are best left to words, not fists, but it’s already come to the latter, so what’s there even left to do?

LIke he said- it’s been a long week.

At least they’re both safe from the storm. At least the guy isn’t out there getting himself killed in it, trying to fix up the poor dying girl under this bridge. At least the tea isn’t too hot to drink anymore.

Come to think of it- can’t hurt to offer again, right?

Franky finishes his sip of pleasantly warm tea, turns to his... guest? Guest. “Hey, I know you said you didn’t want any, but this really hits the…”

And he trails off there, because something is off. The thudding has stopped. He’s not sure when it did, but the empty ribcage of the warehouse doesn’t echo with that heartbeat anymore. He gets an actual look at the kid and sits up a little at what he sees. “... Hey, man, you good?”

Because he doesn’t look good. The thudding stopped because the hammer is no longer moving. It’s still gripped in a hand, but it’s trembling harder now, resting against the scrapped-together hull of the Going Merry like that’s the only thing holding it up. As Franky looks, actually, it’s seeming more and more like the entire body attached to that hand is going the same way- wavering, trembling, held up by scrap-wood.

“... Usopp?” he asks when the man (boy, really) doesn’t answer. “Do you need-”

All at once, that scrap-scaffolding fails- Usopp isn’t truly leaning on it, and his balance is all wrong, trying to fix the thing holding him up. He folds, lists to the side, and Franky is on his feet before he knows it-

But there’s a gasp, and a foot darts out, readjusts, forgoes the scaffolding. It’s not enough on its own though, weakened and slippery with sea water as it is, and a hand follows as Usopp half-collapses. By the end of that second he’s only kneeling in a technical sense, but you could probably argue that he hasn’t truly fallen if you really wanted to.

Franky grimaces.

“I’m okay,” Usopp says, thready and taut like he has been the whole time Franky’s known him so far. Like he’s going to get up, but he’s not. “I got it.”

“I really don’t think you do, man,” Franky says without thinking, and decides he doesn’t regret saying it. “You look like shit.”

Usopp growls. It breaks in the middle and wouldn’t intimidate a kitten. “Gee, thanks.”

“I know my guys. They don’t fuck around.” The image of that same beanpole body, broken and smashed into the ground, left to bleed in the dirt- it comes too easily. “You should sit down or something.”

Usopp doesn’t respond to that. He just sits there for another second, chest expanding and contracting with some hitches in there that Franky knows from experience are broken ribs. His limbs are shaking just holding himself up like that. So of course, he starts moving again, pushes his weight forward to start getting up- lists too far, catches himself on the floor with the other hand, the one holding that stupid hammer of his. It’s enough to save him from the overcorrection, just barely, but he stills there, blinking against what Franky thinks is probably a concussion or five waiting in the wings.

Like he said. A nightmare.

“Merry… didn’t give up,” Usopp practically wheezes. “Not when she was tired, and broken, and hurting. So… I won’t… either.”

“You’re not giving up.” Franky can already feel himself bubbling up again, ready for round two. “You’re taking a break.”

Usopp, again, doesn’t respond. Again, starts pushing himself standing. This time he’s careful enough, slow enough, that the effort itself doesn’t just bowl him over. It’s a close thing, wavering and painful to watch, but eventually he’s on his feet again. He stands there, fists clenching, eyes shut against the waves crashing over him. 

A lump forms in Franky’s throat watching this, and a memory comes to him- Iceburg boiling from fever, still heaving metal and wood and clenching his teeth. Himself watching, incredulous, shouts not enough to bring the stubborn guy down for the rest he needs. Tom, smiling as ever, walking up and putting a hand on Iceburg’s shoulder, words easy and sure, presenting a compromise that eventually led him to falling asleep at the fish-man’s side.

Franky always did want to be the sort of man Tom was. It’s worth a shot.

“Ten minutes.”

Finally, Usopp turns to him- it clearly sends his balance pinwheeling into oblivion, but he stays upright. He blinks, eyes owl-round. “What?”

“You can take ten minutes to sit and drink some tea, right?” Franky realizes now that he hadn’t sat back down, and doesn’t. Crosses his arms, tilts his head pointedly. “You’ve been at it for at least a couple hours. Any dock worker worth his salt knows that it’s standard practice- you get fifteen minutes every two hours, so your muscles don’t tear apart and make you useless.” He lets his eyes move up and down, sizing the kid up. “In your condition, I’d give you double that in half the time, but I can’t force you to do anything. You won’t do your best work when you’re dead on your feet.” He raises an eyebrow. “You want the best for Merry, right? So, ten minutes.”

Usopp stares at him, half processing, half challenging. Franky has never backed down from a challenge. He’s said what he’s needed to say, anyway. They stand like that, a silent showdown, until Usopp’s gaze wanders down to his feet. He looks at his own bandaged hand, clenches it into a loose fist, and can’t hide the jolt of pain that sends through his whole body. He looks up at the Merry, back to his hand, and is still looking at it when he mutters, “Just ten minutes, huh?”

“Ten minutes,” Franky echoes. “You can sit down over here, have some tea if you want.” And just to punctuate it, Franky sits down himself, leaving plenty of room for the kid to sit- or lay- down if he decides to. He grabs his own cup and leans back, taking a sip. He can’t help but smile at the soothing flavor. “It’s good stuff, too.”

Tom had definitely said something a lot more inspiring, used a lot less bribery. But Franky isn’t Tom, never will be- can only live by his example. And to be fair, it is good tea. 

So Franky sits there, eyes closed, and he waits. Usually it’s his least favorite thing to do, but this kid- he thinks he can do it for him. Maybe not forever, but for a bit. 

Like ten minutes.

Nothing happens for a tenth of that time. Franky can still hear him breathing over there, never quite able to catch a full breath. He’s stopping himself from inhaling fully- hurts too much to completely fill his lungs. Franky can hear Iceburg now- “Breathe, flunky, or you’ll make yourself sick!” He wonders if Usopp knows about that. Wonders if the kid even cares. Wonders if even ten minutes is too long for him.

But then he hears the sigh, hears those wavering steps coming closer, and Franky feels something like relief and pride in his cold metal chest.

(He just met the guy, what’s even up with that? His story was sad, sure, but this almost feels like…)

Eventually the couch dips a bit, pressure far on the other side not even close to Franky’s weight. (There’s no supplies on that ship, and he hasn’t seen the kid eat- has he been? Are there snacks in that bag of his? It just looked like supplies, but maybe-) 

Ah. So that’s why he invited him to the Franky Family so fast.

Most of the Family was like Usopp (like himself) before Franky found them. Lost, scared, alone- hurt and hungry too, more often than not. Looking for something to live for. Franky gave them that. Thinks maybe they gave him the same thing back.

Usopp doesn’t seem to want that.

There’s another sigh, a shift in weight. Franky glances over and sees the kid has actually relaxed a little, leaning against the back of the couch. He’s staring up at the ceiling, and he looks beat. Like just getting off his feet has made him realize how tired he is, like he can barely keep his eyes open. He almost looks worse; His limbs are splayed out like they don’t belong to him, stringless-puppet-like. He grimaces every now and then- breath in, breath out, shallow and controlled- but the pressure is off. Just for a bit.

“... Ten minutes,” he mutters on a pained exhale.

Franky doesn’t reply. He wasn’t being spoken to, after all.

It’s too exhausting to be scared for a long time like that. It eats you up, shrivels muscles and nerves into barely anything. Being lost can put you there for months, years, but you can’t survive it constantly. Your heart would beat out of your chest and you’d die. At some point, no matter how you change it or train it, you can’t take any more. You have to take ten minutes. Whether you decide to, or your body makes the decision for you, it’ll happen.

Franky’s just glad it didn’t come to the latter. 

It turns out, Franky is more than capable of waiting for those ten minutes. And when he looks over and Usopp’s eyes are closed, brow just a little less creased, breathing just a little more even, he finds he can wait ten more. 

And when he feels a weight settle into his side, ten minutes feels like no time at all.

It’s later, and shit has hit the absolute fucking fan.

The government goons finally came for Tom’s blueprint, and the damn kid had decided instead of running away while he had the chance, he should try out a fight he had no chance of winning. (It’s remarkable how stubborn fear can make you- Tom would call it brave. Iceburg would call it stupid.) Now they’re both tied up and tossed in a car on the Puffing Tom like a couple of sacks of bricks, on their way to their doom in Enie’s Lobby.

It’s been some time, sitting here and straining against his bonds. Usopp has been trying as well, but he has to stop frequently to catch his breath- still not coming in fully. It’s been a good while of them both trying to find other ways of escape. Usopp had asked Franky to see if he can’t activate anything on his “freak body” (more like freakin’ super) that can get them out of this. 

He’s been trying, but it’s hard to focus on with Usopp right next to him. The kid is still straining, but in small bursts- mostly he’s just wincing against the fresh new bruises, scrapes, and whatever else Franky can’t see that he got from their small altercation. (He’s pretty certain the guy has at least one more broken rib, a few split knuckles, and a twisted ankle. There’s definitely been some concerning cracks and clicks, and fresh blood under the bandages confirms re-opened wounds.) Just now, he’s catching his breath again, leaning up against the crates behind them. His head is bowed, and his eyes are struggling to stay open, but he’s still stubbornly upright.

(If Tom ever felt like this with him and Iceburg, Franky has a whole new level of respect for the man.)

As Usopp’s head nods and springs back up for the third time, Franky sighs, long and loud, even rolling his eyes. The kid’s head darts to look up at him with a bewildered and affronted face, like, what the fuck did I do?, because of course he has no idea. Franky just levels him with a glare. (There’s no heat behind it.)

“Ten minutes, small fry,” he says. “I’ll keep my eyes open. Just take it easy, for fuck’s sakes.”

Usopp blinks at him. Then he glowers. (Franky needs to teach him how to do that properly.) “Okay, first off, I resent that- and second, I thought I already took ten minutes.”

“Yeah, two hours ago. And it hurts lookin’ at you, man.”

“You’re not exactly easy on the eyes yourself,” he mutters. Then- “Hey, wait, what do you mean two hours ago!?”

Ah. Whoops. “You really think I let you sleep for only ten minutes? WIth injuries like that? Come on, I have a heart, you know!”

“That wasn’t the deal, you blue bastard!”

Franky just grins. “Never said I played fair, now did I?”

Usopp squints up at him. Then he looks away. “Well played, I suppose.”

“Damn straight,” Franky agrees. “But seriously, take it easy for a bit. I’ll keep tryin’ to break my own ropes, keep an eye out for those government thugs, but you need to keep your strength up, and it looks like we have time for it. Better take advantage so you’re ready for when you need it, right?”

He doesn’t know why he keeps making bargains like this with the kid. Maybe it’s just that it feels too much like his chest is being ripped open (and he actually knows how that feels, thank you very much) every time he looks at him.

Usopp sighs himself, this time. “I’m never gonna win against you, am I?” he says to himself. Then, to Franky, “Ten minutes. Actually this time. Got it?”

The poor bastard’s attempt at a glare is too dampened by exhaustion to put even a dent in Franky’s shark-tooth grin. “You got it, li’l man.” He’s absolutely lying.

He’s just basking in that victory, turning his attention towards keeping watch, when he feels a familiar weight settle into his side. He looks down at a bandana hiding black curls.

“... Ten minutes,” Usopp mumbles against him.

Franky can’t help it- his grin softens. “Ten minutes.”

In the end, his little lie pays off again. It’s way longer than ten minutes.