Allhands and bodies too, aft - 1st June

"Yes, well. We shall see what we can do to set that right."

It would be no easy task, but rewarding at the end of it, Farley was sure.

"Thanks, sir," Thompson said again. He looked down at the lad, lying peacefully on the table clutching his arm as though it were some prized possession. "I... He'll be a credit to Terpsy one day, if folk only give him a chance," he said.

"A pleasure, my boy, a pleasure. Certainly that is all any man needs, is it not? A mere chance."

Which, by the sound of it, was something this boy had been utterly denied.

Thompson nodded. He'd had his own chance to make something of himself, and the folks back home wouldn't recognise him for the gutter-born street arab they'd known, not now. "Thanks for... for talkin', sir," he said and fell silent, looking down at the boy. He was holding on to the Marine's arm like a drowning man clinging to a plank of wood, and Thompson wondered suddenly if that's what he was to de Guarde - some way out of the hurt and confusion. Poor lad.

"You are welcome, my lad," Farley told the Marine with a smile. "Now... I have no objections if you wish to stay awhile."

Not that he could easily slip away, with the boy De Guarde having such a hold on his arm.

"Thanks, sir," the Marine replied. "Is he goin' to be out long, sir?" he asked, rather wishing he could let de Guarde know he was there, somehow.

The arm was his. He did not want to let go. Even if he was not aware of holding so tight, he did not want to loose the warmth, nor the comfort, nor the touch that made him feel at peace as his hair was stroked.

He was safe and did not need to worry he'd say something rash, hurtful, upsetting or do something that would dissatisfy somebody else. He'd done that earlier and it hurt, well.. it would hurt soon, and a lot. But at this moment he was in his own little world, and he felt at peace. "Mm....." He mumbled and adjusted his hold, only to have a better, firmer one on the coat sleeve and the arm.

Farley glanced at the lad thoughtfully. "A couple of hours, I believe. That is... four bells, is it not?"

"Aye, sir, it is." He wasn't sure he could stay for as long as four bells, but he'd stay for just as long as he could. "Sir... If you'm goin' to talk to the officers about him, he'm in Mister Leat's division, sir."

And he hoped, he really hoped, that the surgeon could turn things around in a way that he, Thompson, couldn't.

Ah. Not a bad guess.

"Mister Leat. Right. Thank you. I should not be long, I hope. Don't let him wander off, will you?"

It was not a question requiring an answer. The surgeon was gone without another word, making his way aft toward the captain's cabin.

"'S all right, sir," Thompson said. "An' I'll do me best, not to, sir." Though if the lad was going to be out for four bells, he wasn't going to be wandering anywhere any time soon, was he.

"It'll work out, Mathew, lad," he said, stroking the boy's hair. "I'm sure it'll all work out jus' fine, you'll see."

As if sensing a departure of the surgeon the boy pulled on the arm and had it yanked down all to the elbow, clutching it then to his chest like a child would a toy. He sighed contently, and did not seem to notice or care that what he just did if successful, might really make the marine stand at an uncomfortable lean.

There was a smile, the faintest sort, appearing on his face. It could not have been a response to the promise, or perhaps..

"Not so hard, lad," Thompson said, half bent-over. He looked around and saw a chair. There was no way he could reach it with his free hand, but if his stuck his leg out... He hooked his foot round the chair-leg and dragged it over to sit down. "You poor boy. We'll see you right, though, somehow. I promise."

De Guarde relaxed when the tension on the arm was relieved some as Thompson took his seat. He sighed and visibly inched to the side of the table on which Thompson was sitting. "Don'go.." He mumbled.

"Don'..wanna'b'lone." He might have been dreaming and talking in his sleep. The smile faded and the expression of no small amount of fear replaced it. His eyes still closed they were the only indicator that he was not aware of what was going on in the 'real' world. "George. i' huwt." And then he was quiet again, but the marine could forget about standing, at least for a while.

Did the lad even know he was there, really? Thompson wasn't sure. He stroked the boy's hair anyway, soothingly. "I know it does, lad, I know. I ain't goin' anywhere for a while yet, I promise."

Seeing the boy lying there, so white and still, reminded him of his own days in training in the Marine Barracks back home. It could almost be him there, after a particularly savage caning by the drill sergeant.

A hand still stroked his hair, so gently and soothingly that the fears seemed to melt away. It was comforting, though he knew that if he opened his eyes, if he woke up he would not feel any of this and he would find himself alone. The surgeon would perhaps leave, go to tend to his other patients if he had any, or depart to take his share in one thing or another. He did not know what the surgeons did when they did not take care of people. He did not think he cared what they did as long as they were not the cause of the death of their patient.

He wished to wake up and find the marine there watching over him, but knew that this could not be, because even Thompson remained upset with him. He was probably angry because his foot had been smushed in, because he would have gotten bit if the boy only had a chance. But in his dream he could have anything he wanted and a forgiving, full and true was one thing he played in his hazy, sleepy mind. Laudanum really made things feel better. Less complicated. But it did not keep him warm.

"....sh...." He murmured and trembled some and sought the warmth of the arm even more. At one point he would need to wake up. Face the harsh reality. If only he did not need to feel the pain and see the disappointment, and feel yet again, alone. If only he could just....

"I could wish you hadn't stamped on me foot," the Marine continued. "Though if Mister Whatever-his-name-is is right, mebbe it makes sense you doin' that, a bit. I just wish I knew how to help you, prop'ly. But I bin talkin' with the surgeon an' he seems to think he can help, a bit. But it'd be nice if the officers had tried talkin' to you, too."

He was still holding his forage hat and slipped it under the crook of de Guarde's elbow, where he'd find it when he woke up later - if he woke up after Thompson had gone.

"George..m'notha'ba.." And in his dream, he agreed. It was odd that he heard him speak even when he did not imagine him. He said he wished that he had not stepped on his foot. "M'ahsoree." And in his dream George Thompson, the marine, said it was ok. He did not understand what else he had said though and wondered why even his dream did not want to make too much sense. But, maybe if he slipped deeper into it. Maybe then it would not confuse him.

He sighed not knowing, nor feeling yet how real the man was, and that he had left him something for when he woke up to know it wasn't all just a dream.

"What? Oh." He wasn't quite sure whether de Guarde was awake or not. "Not I know you ain't that bad, but there's better ways o' dealin' with things, y'know. An' it's all right - it didn't hurt that much." It had hurt more than he was going to let on, though - it had been de Guarde's whole weight, and he'd stamped rather than merely just stood on the Marine's foot.

"You should wake up a bit an' talk to me, y'know. I'm right here," he said, wondering why he was talking to someone who was completely out of it, dosed up to the gills on laudanum.

"you'm no'." He did not want to wake up. He knew that if he would, when he would there would be no marine telling him everything was alright! Why was his dream telling him that. Why was he more aware of it talking anyhow.

"...yom'dree'm." His head shifted a little. It nudged up against the hand. It was quite possible that his consciousness was battling with the effect of laudanum which was trying to keep him completely asleep. The surgeon must have given him a good dose, a safe one still.

"Who's you callin' a dream, you daft boy?" Thompson asked, amused. "You oughta wake up an' see whether I'm a dream or not. I never bin so insulted in me life!" It wasn't much of an insult, though; he was smiling. "There's nicer things to dream of than me, for sure."

"M'no." Was a..somewhat clear answer to Thompson's final claim. He hugged the arm closer and rested his cheek against it. Even if Thompson suggested to check, how could he believe him. It was harder to dream the same once awake, than to keep on dreaming!

"...fn'..wake...y'..gone.." What he might have tried to say was a simple explanation that if he would wake, the marine would be gone, but of course he did not bother making the words all that easy to understand. Not as clear as they were in his head.

"Try it, then," Thompson said, amused. "Ain't goin' nowhere - ain't due on sentry for another... oh, four bells or so. An' the surgeon's gone to see the Captain, I think."

"Mmm..."He wanted to protest again. It was so hard to wake up. His eyes did not even want to open at first. When they did everything looked hazy, thanks most probably to sleepyness and laudanum. He was about to go back to sleep when, with a start, he realised he was indeed feeling something warm and which he was holding onto.

Afraid he might have latched onto the surgeon and was up for a rather embarrassing scene, he forced his eyes open again. "..ym'....not surghn'." He mumbled bemused. This dream was becoming stranger and stranger.

"Never said I was the surgeon," Thompson replied, and patted the lad's head. "You thought I was a dream an' I ain't that, neither. I jus' come to see how you was, is all. But if you'm goin' to call me a dream, or the surgeon or whatever, I mebbe oughta go and leave you to it." He didn't move just yet, though. "I'm a M'rine, ain't I - allus have bin, since I was about your age."