Undertow [part 2a]

[silentdescant]

Undertow

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Frank woke when the first beams of morning sunlight hit his face through the window. He rolled out of bed and immediately went to the window to check the state of the ocean and the weather. The tide was low and the waves were coming in calmly, but he could see the promise of a storm growing in the west.

He shuddered and wrapped his arms around his naked torso. He’d made it a habit over the past year to record the state of things in his journal every morning, like he had with his captain’s log on his ship. As winter loomed, Frank was already recognizing a pattern in the weather, comparing this year to the last. He expected the storms to get worse in the coming months; both more violent and more frequent, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

He never slept easily during storms. The roar of the thunder and the strong waves crashing on the jetty outside his house kept him up all night, helplessly terrified.

Bob was the only person that knew of Frank’s nightmares, having witnessed them firsthand while Frank was living in Bob’s house, and he came to visit Frank every morning after the storms, once the weather cleared. Frank always made them some coffee and Bob always told Frank to get some sleep, instead. His visits were comforting, and they calmed Frank down a good deal, but he couldn’t help feeling jittery for days after a storm of any great magnitude.

The storm Frank saw on the horizon would probably sweep over the island sometime in the evening, maybe as late as midnight. He retrieved one of Bob’s old, soft sweaters and slid his arms into the oversized sleeves. The nervous fluttering in his belly had already started, and Frank was already dreading nightfall.

***

Frank perched on a large rock, well above the crashing waves, and huddled into his coat and scarf. He kept his eyes glued to the horizon, searching for any deviation in the pattern of whitecaps. He’d been watching the angry water for a full day, and he was still on-edge from the violent storm that had blown through the two nights before.

At last, he saw something. A blip on the horizon, a scattered clump of debris nearing the shore off towards Frank’s left. Towards the black rocks that haunted Frank’s nightmares.

He stood and jumped from rock to rock, leaving the jetty and finally stumbling when he reached the soft sand. He ran straight past his house and into the edge of the forest, dashing through the trees on the hard-packed earth to get to the black rocks in time.

There was driftwood-wreckage-slamming into the rocks when he eventually found the right place. Out of breath and running on adrenaline, Frank scrambled up the rocks and scanned the area for bodies.

It took him an achingly long time, but he finally spotted a man pinned by one of the larger pieces of debris. Frank made his way through the rocks as fast as he could without falling to his own death, and found another body along the way.

This man was obviously dead, and Frank left him lying on the sharp rock that pierced his torso to continue on to the first man, who could possibly have a chance.

Frank grabbed at the man’s arms; they were sticky with blood and saltwater, and it was hard to keep his hold. He yanked the man up out of the water. The man didn’t respond. Another dead body. He pulled the man out anyway and propped him on the rock, out of the reach of the crashing waves.

There would be more of them, Frank knew it.

***

He patrolled the black rocks well into evening, but then it only became a danger to him as well. He felt his way down, ledge by craggy ledge, and sank to his knees in the welcome softness of the sand.

They were dead, all the men he’d found. Already dead, and there was nothing he could have done. Nothing he could have done.

He found his way back to his house in the feeble moonlight and slept fitfully, awake and staring through the window for most of the night. Frank woke again as soon as the first hint of sunlight reached his eyes. He bundled up again and prepared for another long day of pulling bodies out of the ocean.

The trail of debris from the wrecked ship had worked its way towards Frank’s beach; none of it reached as far as his jetty, but pieces of the ship and its cargo washed up on the shore away from the wall of black rocks.

Frank picked through it, searching for anything that might identify the ship, its crew, the purpose of its voyage. Nothing useful was salvaged, and there were no more bodies until the afternoon.

A man and a woman, both clinging to a large piece of what Frank presumed had been the deck, or maybe a thick door. Both were badly wounded at the very least; Frank could see that from shore.

They were far enough away from the black rocks that Frank dared to wade into the sea after them. He stripped off his coat and scarf, leaving them in a bundle on the sand, and threw himself into the shallow water.

His heart was pounding with a mix of fear and sick hope by the time he reached them. Alive, both of them, but unconscious. Frank grabbed the edge of the plank they clung to and dragged it towards shore.

It was a rough journey through the waves and up onto the beach, and when they made it to land, the man stirred awake.

“Hey, hey,” Frank said urgently. “Sir, are you okay? What’s your name? Are you hurt bad?”

“The ship-” the man mumbled. His voice was thick and waterlogged; he coughed. “Survivors?”

“Just you so far, and the girl. What’s your name, sir? How are you hurt?”

“My-my-”

Frank pulled him away from the woman, spread him out flat on the sand, and then it was obvious how he was wounded. There were deep gashes all across his chest, exposing his ribs in some places. Frank held in his gasp of alarm and peeled away the man’s shirt.

This man was not going to live, that much was clear. He’d made it to shore only to die as soon as he reached dry land. Frank felt the hot, thick ache of a sob in his chest, but he couldn’t show that to the man, not as he was dying in Frank’s arms. He needed to be strong, he needed to be the captain again.

Frank pulled the man up a little bit, cradling him in his lap, and covered the wounds with the torn shirt. “What’s your name, sir? Tell me about your ship.”

“McCoy. Sean McCoy,” the man choked out. “I was just-navigator-passage to England-”

“Sean, Sean, it’s okay, you’re safe here,” Frank murmured. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

“Survivors?” Sean asked weakly.

“Just the girl.” Frank spared her a glance; she was injured, definitely, but her chest was still steadily rising and falling as she breathed. She had time. “I’ll help her, I’ll take care of her, I promise.”

“The storm-too much-capsized-”

“I know. I know,” Frank whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Sean moved his hand to Frank’s arm and squeezed briefly. It took him a few minutes to die, and Frank didn’t leave him until there was no breath left in his body. Frank reached up and closed Sean’s eyes, then laid him down flat on the sand again.

The woman, lying a few feet away, seemed to be stable. Frank crawled over to her and brushed the dark, matted hair from her face. She was pale and her lips and the skin around her eyes were tinged with blue from the cold. Frank’s eyes traveled down to her chest, where her bodice was torn and bloodstained. He quickly peeled back the fabric to see the wound.

There were gashes in her chest, like Sean, but not nearly so deep. The boning of her corset must have protected her a little. Frank skimmed his fingers over the ragged edges of her skin, coming away wet with blood. He moved down to the tatters of her skirt, pushing the shredded pieces off her legs to see the extent of the injuries. She wasn’t bleeding anywhere from the waist down, but the outer part of her pale thigh was purple and black with bruises.

She was breathing steadily, and her pulse felt strong, but she wouldn’t wake no matter how Frank touched her or called to her. Frank covered her again with the remains of her dress and quickly retrieved his coat and scarf to wrap her exposed skin. He thought it was probably safe to at least carry her to his house and care for her there before going for help.

He scooped her up into his arms and took a few unsteady steps towards the harder ground up by the forest. He made faster progress through the trees, but still moved slowly so as not to injure the woman further. She didn’t stir at all while Frank fumbled through his door and laid her down on his bed.

He threw a few logs into his fireplace and stoked the fire into a full roar, then pushed his bed closer to it. Hopefully the warmth would chase away the blue tinge in the woman’s skin quickly.

It was different, peeling away her clothes while she slept in his bed; all Frank could think about was what she would think if she woke up now, to his hands on her bare skin.

She didn’t wake, though. She didn’t stir at all, just continued to breathe steadily. That was a welcome relief, at least. Frank held her wrists gently, feeling the beat of her pulse, and then moved his hands to her face. Her skin was warming up, slowly, and hopefully she wouldn’t catch her death from the cold.

Satisfied that she wouldn’t die as soon as he turned his back, Frank went to the kitchen and searched through his cabinets for bowls of water and damp cloths to wash away the blood. He tried to keep her modesty intact while he cleaned her up, but he needed to care for her, there was no getting around that.

Frank finally decided to undress her and give her one of his own shirts, one of the large, soft ones he’d kept from Bob, which wouldn’t hurt her when she moved. A hot blush crept across his cheeks as his hands swept over her body. He tried not to dwell on those thoughts.

Nothing changed as he wrapped her wounds and redressed her, and nothing changed when he tucked her into his bed. As far as he could tell, she was only sleeping. He didn’t know what was keeping her in that state, though; he didn’t know if it was something he could fix.

He was afraid to leave her, even to run to Bob’s house for help. Her condition was still too uncertain. While she seemed stable, Frank worried that she might slip away if he wasn’t watching.

Part of Frank wanted to go back out to the rocks, or at least the jetty, and watch the beach for any more survivors or wreckage from this ship, but he couldn’t leave her. She was going to live, he would make sure of that. Frank eventually came to the realization that the certainty of her life was worth more to him than the possibility of finding more people that he couldn’t save.

It was well over a day and a half since the storm, since Frank presumed that the ship broke apart; he knew that logically, other survivors were very unlikely. It was smart to take his chances and stay with this woman. It was the right choice.

Frank pretended that was the reason he stayed, and not the fact that he just didn’t want to leave her to wake up alone.

He positioned himself at the table so he could continue to watch her while he documented the day in his journal. He made note of the men he’d found dead, and Sean McCoy, who had died in his arms. He made note of the woman who lay in his bed, injured and unconscious. It was the longest entry Frank had written since he recounted the circumstances of his own arrival on the island a year ago.

When he finished, Frank thumbed absently through the empty pages of the thick journal. Tomorrow, he would go for help. Decision made, he closed the book and set it aside, resting his pen on the cover.

He took a set of blankets and spread them out on the floor beside the bed, where he could watch the woman sleep. Her face was peaceful and slowly regaining color, though Frank guessed that she would always be very fair-skinned. Her features were relaxed, and Frank believed she really was only sleeping. He settled onto his makeshift bed and watched her well into the night, until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

***

Frank rose early the next morning. Sunlight streamed through the window and fell across the woman’s face, but still she slept. Frank checked her pulse again, listened carefully to the sound and rhythm of her breathing, and gave her wounds a careful cleaning with the limited supplies he had. He wrapped her up again in gauze, his shirt, and the blankets, and brought the fire back to life to keep the room warm enough before finally giving in to his own needs and fixing himself breakfast.

He thought that perhaps the smell of food cooking would bring the woman out of whatever kept her asleep, but she didn’t even twitch.

Halfway through the day, she still hadn’t moved, and Frank was growing restless. As there had been absolutely no change in her condition, he thought it was safe to leave her for the short time it would take to reach Bob’s house and come back.

Frank tucked the blankets in around her and gently brushed her hair away from her face. He gave her a long look before finally heading out the door. As soon as he was outside, the sick tension of worry was back, and he ran flat-out all the way to Bob.

He burst through the door without knocking, screaming for Bob, for help, for an answer, anything. The house was empty, and Frank went directly to the cabinet where Bob kept his medical supplies. “Bob! Bob? Where are you, I need help!” he shouted.

Bob came into the house then, face flushed from the cold and from worry. He saw Frank with the medical supplies and instantly ran over to him. “What’s happened? Are you okay?”

“A woman-shipwrecked-she won’t wake. I need help,” Frank replied urgently.

“A woman? Does she need a doctor? What happened?”

“The storm. I don’t want to leave her. Please, I don’t know what to do.”

Bob pushed Frank aside and rifled through the cabinets, pulling out bandages and splints and stuffing them into Frank’s arms. “Take these. I’ll go to the mainland and get the doctor. What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said, already moving towards the door. “Her wounds aren’t terrible, I don’t think, but she won’t wake up. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Bob came over to Frank and squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. “Go back to her. I’ll get Schechter and come to your house as quick as I can.”

Frank looked up at Bob and smiled for the first time in days. “Thank you.”

***

Doctor Schechter was baffled when he examined the woman. Frank and Bob both watched him closely, waiting for his diagnosis.

“Aside from the obvious wounds,” Schechter said slowly, “I can’t see anything wrong with her. This might just be her body’s way of recovering.” He turned to Frank. “God knows you would’ve healed faster if you had rested well.”

“Could it be a sickness? She was in the freezing water for well over a day,” Frank replied.

“There may be lingering effects, but she’s not feverish, and she’s not overly pale.”

“She’s gotten a lot of her color back,” Frank said. “When I pulled her from the water, her lips were blue with cold.”

“My advice is to keep her warm,” Schechter said firmly. “Keep changing her bandages, cleaning her wounds. They don’t look too bad, and they should heal quickly if she doesn’t move. If she hasn’t woken by tonight, try to get her to drink some water; she’s probably dehydrated.”

Frank nodded quickly. Schechter gave the woman another brief once-over and shrugged. He handed Frank a bottle of the same pain medication he’d given Frank for his injury.

“There’s nothing more I can do, I’m sorry. Call on me again when she wakes and I’ll figure out the extent of the damage, but I’m sure she’ll need the medicine, at least. Bob, let’s go.”

“Will you be alright, Frank?” Bob asked.

Frank looked down at the woman’s soft features and closed eyelids. He just needed to learn patience. He nodded at Bob and they packed up to leave. Frank didn’t see them out. He knelt by the bed and gently touched her cheek. He wanted her to wake up.

***

Frank sat with his journal in his lap, hunched over to read the previous entries in the low light. Mostly, he wrote observations about the weather, a leftover habit from keeping the logbook on his ship. Strong winds had been picking up recently, he’d noticed, and carrying with them storms like the one that had shipwrecked this woman, and like the one the previous year that had shipwrecked him.

He took out his pen and flipped it over his fingers absently, his gaze straying to the woman’s profile. Her lips were parted slightly, but lax as they ever were. She didn’t look like she was in any pain at all.

Frank set his pen to the paper, trying to force himself to write. He didn’t know what to say. His pen, unmoving, made a thick blot and Frank frowned at it. He shifted his hand and tried again.

Shipwreck survivor still has not woken. I called Bob Bryar and Dr. Schechter for assistance and advice. Dr. Schechter did not see any evidence of illness or infection, but she hasn’t stirred. He left me with medicine for her-she will surely need it. The doctor didn’t appear worried about the state of her injuries, but they are quite severe. I fear she won’t recover. I can’t help it.

She sleeps in my bed and doesn’t move but to breathe. I’ve given her clean clothes and a safe, warm place to rest. Tomorrow I’ve been instructed to try and make her drink. I wish she would wake.

Frank actually had to force himself to stop writing, before he described how knotted her hair was, and how her dress had been torn. How soft her skin was to the touch. How calm she looked, like she was sleeping peacefully.

He capped his pen and closed the journal before the ink had even dried.

***

Frank stayed by the woman’s bedside all night, barely sleeping in case she did wake up, and then for most of the morning as well. He pulled up his chair and sat with his legs curled beneath him, cradling a mug of tea in both hands. He kept forgetting to drink it, though, and by noon, it was cold and still almost full.

He tried trickling fresh water between the woman’s lips twice, but each time Frank couldn’t figure out how to make her swallow. Afraid of accidentally drowning her, Frank set aside the cup of water and traced his wet fingers over her lips instead, in an effort to soothe the dryness there, at least. When he received no reaction, Frank sat back in his chair and gulped some of his own cold tea.

Finally, sometime in the afternoon, she stirred. Frank nearly dropped his mug in surprise. He put it on the floor and slid out of the chair to his knees, his hands hovering above her body, ready to shake her awake or calm her down. He waited.

She moved again, and this time her mouth scrunched up in a frown, and little wrinkles appeared at the corner of her eyes as her face tensed. Frank held his breath, suddenly afraid.

Surprisingly, it was her eyes she regained control over first. She blinked a few times to adjust to the bright, midday sun. Then she licked her chapped lips and opened her mouth to speak.

“Who…” she said. “What…” Her voice was so low and rough from disuse that Frank could barely understand her.

Frank let out the breath he’d been holding, finally letting his hands settle on her bare arms. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re safe. My name’s Frank.”

“Frank,” she said. For a moment, nothing happened, then all at once, she tried to sit up. Frank pressed down on her shoulders firmly to stop her. “Stop,” she growled.

“No, no, don’t move. You’re hurt,” Frank explained gently. She stopped struggling. “What’s your name, love?”

She gave him a suspicious glare, brown eyes shining with something that didn’t look like fever, and Frank held her gaze steadily.

“What’s your name?” he asked again. “I told you mine.”

“Jamia,” she answered shortly. Frank smiled. He liked the sound of that name, the way it felt on his lips as he mouthed it back to her, testing it.

“Do you know where you are, Jamia? Do you remember what happened?”

Jamia stared up at him, her gaze softening but her mouth still tense and suspicious. “No.”

Frank sighed. He sat back on his heels and gently stroked his thumb over Jamia’s arm. “Your ship,” he began carefully. “There was a storm, and she capsized. There were… bodies… I pulled one other man from the water, but…”

“That’s it?” she asked. She shifted and pushed up on her elbows, and Frank slid his hand behind her back to support her; she obviously wasn’t aware of how badly injured she was. “There’s no one else?”

Frank shook his head. He knew exactly how she felt, and he still had no words.

The tension smoothed out of her face and she finally dropped her gaze. She also started to drop down to the bed, but Frank kept his hand firm beneath her and lowered her down those few inches gently.

“Who are you? How did you…”

“I’m Frank Iero, I live on this island. I go out and watch the ocean, especially after storms, in case something happened.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Jamia shook her head and raised an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer.”

Frank looked away. “Just because. It’s not important. Jamia, listen. You’re healing well so far, but I need to know if you feel anything else that hurts, or if you feel ill.”

“No,” Jamia answered calmly.

“Okay,” Frank said, keeping his voice and his touch soft. He skimmed his hands up from her arm to her ribs, just beneath her breasts. “Is it alright if I…” he asked, trailing off uncertainly.

Jamia’s eyes flashed again, like they had before, and Frank took it to mean that she didn’t trust him. He held his breath and waited, though, because she didn’t say no.

Finally, she nodded. Frank slowly unbuttoned the lower part of her shirt and pushed the halves aside, exposing the stained bandage stretched across her stomach. The sight of the rusty bloodstains made Jamia gasp, and Frank gently touched her arm again, trying to convey comfort.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Now that I see it,” Jamia replied. Her voice was unsteady for the first time, and Frank could see her reconsidering him in her mind.

“The doctor gave me something for the pain,” Frank said, reaching for the bottle on the floor. His knuckles brushed the handle of his mug of tea, and he caught Jamia’s eyes. “You must be thirsty. Hungry. Dehydrated. You’ve been asleep for… a long time. Should I make you something? Maybe just some water? You have to drink water.”

Jamia shook her head slightly. She was settling back down on the bed and her cheeks were flushed pink. Her eyelids drooped to half-mast.

“You have to drink,” Frank said quickly. “And the medicine, it’ll help you. Stay awake, just for a minute.”

He shifted and got his feet under him but didn’t stand up all the way yet. He saw Jamia’s grimace of pain and grabbed the bottle of medicine. It took him a moment to uncap it and pour the right amount into the large spoon Schechter had given him, but Jamia accepted it gratefully, not even making a face at the awful smell. Frank supported her with his hand cupped around the back of her head, where her hair was the most tangled and knotted.

“Let me get you some water,” he murmured as he laid her back down. “Don’t drift off just yet.”

She managed to stay awake long enough to drain an entire cupful of fresh water, but that was all. Her eyes slipped closed as suddenly as they’d opened, and Frank even managed to suppress his initial panic that she wouldn’t wake up again.

He set the cup on the ground beside his mug, the two handles facing the same direction, and sat cross-legged, leaning back against the chair. He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest until he was confident that she wasn’t any worse off than before, and then kept watching her simply because he didn’t want to look away.

She hadn’t said much, but at least now Frank knew her name.

***

Jamia woke up once more that first day, long enough to drink more water and eat some of the soup broth Frank fed her. She didn’t offer any more information about herself or her ship, and Frank didn’t pry. He thought aloud about running to fetch the doctor, or at least Bob, who knew more about medicine and anatomy than Frank, but Jamia shook her head.

“I’m alive,” she said quietly. “That’s enough for now.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Frank insisted. “It should only take a few hours to get to the mainland and back, and I promised Dr. Schechter that I would tell him when you woke up. He needs to make sure your injuries aren’t more serious.”

“They aren’t,” Jamia replied firmly, “and the medication helps with the pain. I’ll be fine.”

“He’ll yell at me if I don’t notify him,” Frank said, crossing his arms. He knew he sounded stubborn, but he also knew that he was right. She needed to be seen by a proper doctor, while she was conscious. It was just too dangerous, otherwise. He tried this logic on Jamia, and she just scoffed.

“It’s not too dangerous. I’ll be fine.”

Frank shrugged. Nothing she said would change the fact that he was going to bring the doctor in tomorrow.

Jamia fell back asleep not long after the conversation devolved, and she slept soundly through the night. Frank stayed up, watching her. He couldn’t help it. In the morning, he gently shook Jamia’s shoulder to rouse her. She didn’t wake completely, and Frank was glad.

“I’m going to see Bob,” he murmured, “to get the doctor. I’ll be back soon, just don’t try to move. There’s water here, by the bed, if you wake up thirsty.”

Jamia hummed and closed her eyes again. Frank stood by the bed, struck dumb by the sight of her, for several minutes before finally gathering his coat and scarf and running to Bob’s house.

A few hours later, when Bob and Schechter finally knocked on the door, Jamia was still asleep. Frank leapt from his chair and opened it quickly, holding a finger to his lips.

“She’s sleeping,” he whispered unnecessarily.

“I need to see her when she’s awake,” Schechter replied in an exasperated tone at normal volume. Frank winced and nodded, because Schechter did have a point.

He motioned for them to follow him inside and they gathered around Jamia’s bed. Frank sank to his knees and touched her shoulder.

“Jamia,” he said quietly. “Jamia, the doctor’s here, you need to wake up.”

She didn’t move.

Bob tapped Frank and asked, “Have you woken her up before?”

“Yes, kind of,” Frank hedged. “I’ve mostly been letting her sleep. Is that wrong?”

“No, no,” Schechter said. “It’s just inconvenient that she doesn’t wake up on command, because I really do need to examine her.”

“Jamia,” Frank tried again. “Jamia, love, wake up.” He jostled her shoulder again, just slightly, but it was finally enough to make her open her eyes.

She instantly went on the alert when she saw the two strangers crowded around her bedside, but Frank caught her eye and nodded, and she calmed down. Bob and the doctor introduced themselves, and Schechter instructed Bob and Frank to leave the room while he changed Jamia’s bandages and asked her questions about her health and her history.

They moved outside, huddled in the lee of the house, until Schechter came out, carrying his medical bag. Frank, already twitchy from leaving Jamia with a relative stranger, jumped away from his spot on the wall.

“Is she-”

“She’s sleeping,” Schechter answered calmly. “I stitched up the gashes in her side, and gave her a new bandage, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else wrong.”

“Why is she sleeping so much?” Frank asked, worrying the hem of his jacket sleeves with both hands.

Bob nudged him. “You did that, too,” he said.

“She’ll be fine,” Schechter added. “Keep her warm, fed, hydrated, and clean. She’s healing perfectly, Frank, this is probably just her way of dealing with whatever’s happened to her. It’s okay. Trust me.”

Frank looked from Schechter to Bob; Bob nodded, and Frank looked back at the doctor.

“Okay,” he eventually replied. “Can I go back in, now?”

***

Frank sat by Jamia for most of the day. He didn’t really have much else to do; he usually filled his days with mindless chores and going out around the island, and on occasion he stopped in to see Bob or the Ways. Mostly, Frank went out and watched the water and wrote in his journal. He felt like a sentinel, a lot of the time, standing guard over the island and reaching out to those he saw.

Like Jamia.

She was his first survivor.

Frank curled up in the chair by the bed, cheek pillowed on his knee. He was alone with his thoughts, like always, but at least there was the sound of another person’s breathing to fill the silence. Even Jamia’s unconscious presence was enough to stave away the loneliness of Frank’s life on the island.

He lost track of time, watching her sleep. Sometime in the evening, she started to shift and grimace, and Frank touched her shoulder to wake her. She opened her eyes and looked right up at him.

“Do you just sit here and watch me?” she asked in a rough voice.

Frank opened his mouth to reply, but Jamia interrupted him with a groan. “Are you okay?” he asked instead. “Do you need the medicine?”

“Yes,” she said. She tried to sit up on her own, but that involved twisting her torso and she yelped when she moved.

“What is it? What happened?” he asked urgently.

“Nothing,” she replied, waving him off. “Just help me?”

Frank easily lifted her into an upright position, resting his hand against her back a little longer than strictly necessary. Just to be sure, he told himself. He poured out a spoonful of the foul liquid and held it to Jamia’s lips, and she moved her hand to his wrist, to steady the spoon.

When she finished, Frank laid her back down. She grumbled about not being able to turn onto her side, but Frank gave her a stern look and she merely sighed and let it go. Once Jamia settled on the bed, Frank sat back in his chair.

“Frank, don’t just sit there. I don’t need you to watch me.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” he admitted after a moment. He wanted to be helpful.

“Well, what do you normally do?”

“Nothing important,” Frank answered softly.

Jamia sighed again and closed her eyes, accepting defeat.

“I write in my journal every day,” Frank offered. Jamia opened her eyes again.

“Can I see?”

Frank nodded and retrieved the leather-bound book. He’d filled almost half the pages since Bob bought it for him over a year ago, and the leather was holding up well even in the salty island air. The pages warped just slightly in the damp, and Frank found it oddly comforting. He handed Jamia the journal.

She didn’t open it. She stroked the spine with her thumb, the cracks in the leather with the very tips of her fingers. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured. “What do you write?”

“Uh, mostly the weather?” Frank said. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous; he was blushing like a fool for no apparent reason. “It’s just habit.”

“Habit?” Jamia prompted. Her voice was gentle, and she gave Frank an encouraging glance. She was nursing along this conversation, he realized. She was giving him something to do. It was strange; he felt so out of practice.

“I was captain of a ship,” Frank finally answered. “I kept a logbook of the weather conditions, our headings, anything of note that happened during the day. It was something my father taught me, when he was captain. I wish I still had it; I wrote things I wanted to remember in there. I lost it when-”

Jamia handed the journal back to him and Frank looked down at it, avoiding her sharp, calculating gaze. She didn’t need to prompt him again for Frank to know she wanted the rest of the story.

“I know how you feel, being the only one left alive,” he began in a low voice. “I was shipwrecked here just over a year ago. I lost… everything in that storm.”

When he looked up from his lap, Jamia’s expression was compassionate. She encouraged him on without even speaking.

“All my men are dead; my ship’s sunk to the bottom of the ocean. The only thing I saved was my father’s pocket watch, and it doesn’t even work now.” He pulled his hand away from the chain around his neck; he hadn’t even realized he’d been touching it.

“So why are you here?” Jamia asked gently. Frank could tell that she wasn’t just prodding for information; she was genuinely curious.

“I had no reason to leave,” Frank shrugged. “I didn’t want the same thing to happen to anyone else, so I watch. And it’s a good thing, too.”

Jamia smiled briefly. “It is indeed,” she replied. Her grin faded. The medicine was taking effect; Jamia would be asleep within minutes.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” she murmured as her eyelids drooped.

They lost eye contact. Frank sighed and splayed his hands over the journal, and didn’t move from his chair.

***

Over the next few days, Jamia started staying awake for longer periods of time. Frank didn’t let her move very much, and she didn’t fight him on it, so he was sure her injuries were still painful. Frank made meals for them both and Jamia talked to him almost constantly. Frank hadn’t realized how much he missed the sound of idle conversation.

In all their conversations, though, Jamia never touched on anything serious. Finally, Frank had to ask.

“Jamia, is there anyone I should contact for you?” She shook her head, but Frank pressed on. “Family? Anyone for the people on your ship?”

“Frank,” she interrupted, “I didn’t know them. I was traveling alone; it was early into the voyage.”

“Where were you going?” Frank asked. “Surely someone’s expecting you.”

“There’s no one,” Jamia insisted. “Just drop it.”

Frank sighed. “You can stay here as long as you want.”

“Like you did?” she asked knowingly.

“I didn’t see a reason to leave. It’s not like I can just magic a ship and a crew out of thin air.”

“But you can manage a house.”

“Gerard helped me build this house. Gerard and Bob.”

“Gerard?”

Frank realized quite suddenly that nobody had told her about Gerard and his family. He smiled. “Gerard Way. You’ll meet him soon. Bob probably already told him about you. He’s…” Frank trailed off. There weren’t words to describe Gerard or his wife adequately. Jamia looked politely curious, so Frank finished his sentence with “…a good man. He’s a very good man. He’s the reason I’m still on this island. I don’t really work for him like Bob does, but… he still lets me stay.”

Frank cocked his head consideringly at her. He already knew he didn’t want her to leave, at least not anytime soon. “Who were you, before?” he asked.

Jamia was quiet for a long moment. “I was a schoolteacher,” she said at last.

Grinning, Frank asked, “Did everyone call you Miss Nestor or ma’am?”

“They would have,” she answered. She returned his smile, but it was sort of sad. “I never got the chance to teach anyone. I’d just gotten out of school. I didn’t even have a job.”

“No job, no one expecting you-”

“No husband,” she interjected candidly. “No home. I was going to start fresh.”

Frank very deliberately closed off his expression from her. He couldn’t voice his thoughts, though they were almost deafening inside his mind. Stay with me, stay with me. He took a breath and said, “Perhaps Gerard will have something for you. When you’re well, you’ll meet him.”

She gave him a quick flash of a smile. “I look forward to it.”

***

The week passed and Jamia was recovering well. Before Frank was fully comfortable with it, she was up and out of bed. Her dress and corset were both a dead loss, damaged beyond repair, but she was small enough to fit into Frank’s clothes, most of which were hand-me-downs from Bob anyway.

She got tired quickly, but she insisted on helping Frank around the house. She made dinner for them each night and cleaned up after, even when Frank protested.

“I can’t just sit around and let you wait on me, Frank,” she said, every single time. “Don’t worry. You can have most of the chores.”

He was glad to take them, though. From his own experience, he knew sitting idle and feeling useless was tough, but he couldn’t help wanting to take care of her. He liked taking care of her.

***

Frank sat on the floor beside the fireplace, arms wrapped around his knees, while Jamia puttered around, dowsing the lights on her way to bed. She paused as she passed Frank, close enough for Frank to feel the air shift as she walked by, but Frank didn’t turn around. He stared into the dying fire. It needed another log; the crackling flames had almost petered out.

“Are you going to bed?” she asked softly. Her fingers slid briefly over Frank’s bare shoulder, like she was trying to bring him out of a daze.

He leaned toward the touch automatically, but ignored her question. The rain on the windows nearly drowned out her voice anyway, and it was easy to pretend he hadn’t heard her.

“Frank-” she said, louder.

“Go to bed,” he cut her off sharply. She withdrew her hand. Frank swayed towards her, following her for a fraction of a second before he caught himself. He hunched over his knees and focused on the warmth of the fire instead. It barely put a dent in the chill the rain brought.

Frank listened to Jamia climb onto the mattress and rearrange the blankets and pillows, quiet rustles of fabric beneath the roar of the rain. He stared at the fire until it couldn’t even be called a fire anymore. The embers were glowing red, but the flames had died and there was no sound left but the rain.

The rain and, quite suddenly, the thunder. It took Frank by surprise and he flinched, digging his fingers into his own flesh. He didn’t want to be afraid. He hoped Jamia was asleep, though how she could sleep through this, Frank hadn’t a clue. He rocked back and forth a few times to shift his body away from the window, closer to the fireplace.

“What’s wrong?” Jamia asked. “Do you need another blanket?”

Frank shook his head.

“Is it the storm?” Her voice was gentle, but the question was blunt and Frank turned his head so she couldn’t see his face.

“I’m not scared,” he insisted weakly.

“What’s wrong, Frank?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re practically hyperventilating, Frank,” she replied carefully. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine in the morning,” Frank said stiffly. A flash of lightning followed by a loud clap of thunder made Frank suck in a sharp breath.

“I want you to be fine now.” Frank heard her sit up, heard her feet brush the floor.

“It doesn’t matter.”

She was kneeling beside him in seconds, her arm heavy and warm across his shoulders. “Frankie, come lie down,” she whispered, close enough that her breath tickled Frank’s ear. He closed his eyes, but it didn’t block out the bright flash of lightning. Jamia took his arm firmly and guided him to his feet, and then towards the bed.

“What are you-” he muttered, stumbling along at her side.

“Shh. Lie down.” She pushed him down to the bed, ignoring his feeble protests, and slid beneath the blankets next to him. He tensed and shied away from her as much as he could on the small bed, but she just wrapped her arms around him and pressed herself against his back from shoulder to thigh.

“Jamia,” he whispered harshly, reaching back with one hand in an attempt to put some space between them. He was distracted by another deafening rumble of thunder, and he knew she could feel the involuntary shudder than ran through his body.

“Relax. Breathe, Frank,” she murmured. Her lips touched the back of his neck. Her breath was hot on his skin, and he shivered for an entirely different reason.

Jamia slid her hand down Frank’s arm, pressing firmly to ease the tension in his muscles. Frank’s shoulders relaxed by degrees, and he finally leaned back against her. Her whole body was warm and soft and comforting, and Frank exhaled loudly.

“Breathe,” she reminded him gently. “Can you tell me, is it the thunder?”

“I don’t know,” Frank hedged. He followed her guidance, breathing in and out in tandem with her. His head felt a little clearer. “I can’t help it.”

“Is it your ship? Is it that night?” Her hand curved around Frank’s side, stroking in slow circles over his stomach, dipping low enough to brush the waistband of Frank’s pants. His skin tingled wherever her fingers touched.

“The same thing happened to you,” Frank whispered. “You understand, don’t you?” She didn’t answer. Lightning flashed; Frank clenched his eyes shut and concentrated hard on relaxing again, following Jamia’s example of deep, slow breaths. He finally turned his head, though not enough to face her, and asked, “Why aren’t you afraid?”

She waited several long moments before replying, but Frank didn’t interrupt. She was going to reply; he could feel it. He curled his body into the fetal position and her legs followed as she fitted herself against him again.

“You lived at sea,” she murmured. “This wasn’t supposed to happen to you. But I didn’t know any better.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve never experienced something so horrible, have you?” she asked gently, and Frank shook his head. “It didn’t fit into your world. But I didn’t know your world before I stepped on that ship. I didn’t know this wasn’t normal.”

She wrapped herself around him, holding him tightly with her lips pressed to the skin beneath his ear. “It’s okay to be frightened, Frank.”

“But-”

“Nothing can hurt you here,” she continued. “You’re not on a ship. You’re not in that world. This one’s different.”

Frank heard what Jamia wasn’t saying: she knew this world better than he did. She was telling him he was safe, and he was going to believe her. He forced his muscles to relax and he sank into her embrace.

She kept her arms tight over him, but everywhere else she was soft-her breasts pressed against his back, her thighs spooned behind his own. He took a few deep breaths, feeling the tension leave him. Almost against his will, he was getting sleepy. The last thing he was aware of was the gentle touch of Jamia’s lips on the back of his neck.

***

When Frank woke, sunlight was streaming in through the window and cutting across his face. It was warm and bright, the kind of sunlight that follows heavy clouds. That wasn’t what woke him, though; a sharp knock sounded at the door, for the second time. Beside him, Jamia stirred and blinked awake.

Frank started to move, to extract himself from Jamia’s arms and answer the door, but Jamia put her hand gently on his arm.

“Shh, go back to sleep; I’ll get it.” Before Frank could protest, Jamia slid out of bed and padded across the room. A brief chill swept over Frank’s body in her absence and he tugged the blankets tighter around him. He was still exhausted. He closed his eyes again and listened to Jamia open the door and greet Bob warmly.

“Where’s Frank?” Bob asked. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. He’s sleeping,” Jamia replied quietly. Frank heard the door squeak as she opened it wider. “Would you like to come in? I can wake him if you want to talk.”

“No, no,” Bob answered. “I just came to check on him. He’s never slept through a storm like that.”

Frank could hear the faint note of worry in Bob’s voice, and apparently Jamia could too, because she said, “He’s okay, Bob. Really.”

Bob sounded like he was smiling when he said, “Thank you, Jamia.” They were quiet for a moment, then Jamia said, “Of course.”

Reassured, Bob said his goodbyes, asking Jamia to tell Frank he stopped by, and left. Jamia closed the door but didn’t return to bed. Frank turned over to face the room and opened his eyes again.

“Jamia?” he asked carefully. She smiled at him, bright as the sun outside, and came to stand by the bed. Frank pushed open the blanket and invited her in again, and she didn’t hesitate.

She snuggled in against him, their knees pressed together and her arm around his waist. She raised her eyebrows at him, questioning.

“He’s right,” Frank whispered. They were close enough that he could feel her breath on his face. “I think you might be magic.”

A smile flashed across Jamia’s face and then she asked, “Are you really okay?”

Frank took a moment to actually think about it, then nodded. “I think I am. Thank you, Jamia. I don’t even know what you did, but thank you.”

She didn’t reply. Her face softened into an easy smile, but her eyes still looked unsure. Frank sighed and curled into her, tentatively sliding his arm over her waist to hold her like she held him. He could feel the edge of the bandage around her torso through her shirt. He breathed in the warmth of her skin, surrounding him and protecting him.

“I have to go out there,” he whispered. “I have to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?” she asked, her voice equally soft.

“Make sure there’s no wreckage. That’s how I found you,” he replied. Her arm tightened around him for a moment, and then she got out of bed again, leaving Frank adrift.

“I’ll make you some breakfast, then,” she said simply.

***

[part 2b]