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Steam:
steam
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Iceberg is trying to stabilize the boiler - trying to turn the stuck pressure valve with a wrench, sweat dripping from his chin and elbows and wetting his clothes, muscles burning with the effort. Tom is leaning in the narrow window with an easy laugh and tired eyes and telling him to let it go - when the water tank bursts.
He only remembers the loudness of it.
The heat pooling around his legs and smothering in the steam.
-x-
There's a funky whining noise in the smokebox that Franky doesn't like, but Tom won't let them crack her open until she cools off. He's padding back to the cab across the top of the engine to let the others know, the metal too hot under his bare feet, when it lurches underneath him - a violent shudder and boom that makes him stagger, a piercing wail that makes him cringe. He has to catch himself on his hands and scramble forward to where the engine slopes, dropping to the ground. His heart is hammering from the jolt even as he straightens up, and then he hears the gushing hiss of water, metal groaning and giving, and Tom, "ICEBERG!"
Franky looks down the length of the engine, and sees the steam roiling out of the window, the iron side of the cab bowing outward under Tom's big hands, pulling on the window frame. He's going to tear the side clean off, but the bolts are fixed with double bearings and they don't give right away, even to Tom.
The train starts to tip.
Something cold sinks into Franky's chest.
Tom wouldn't ruin his own work if he didn't have to.
Franky's moving before he even thinks to do it. The door is on the other side of the train, no way he's getting around it in time. He slides under Tom's arm, grabs the frame, puts a foot in the fishman's chest and shoves himself head-first through the window - hears a protest that he doesn't heed as he pulls his legs through, crouching in the windowsill to keep from falling in the water that's pooled in the floor of the cab. The heat gusts across his face and snatches his breath.
He's pouring sweat already, can hardly assess the damage through the steam, but Franky can see where the water tank burst. The metal's twisted like a flower opening, and the steam pushed several of the larger pipes out from the valve wall. The firebox is cracked wide open, a gaping furnace that makes the water boil.
There's a large pipe bowed out right across the cab that's still intact, big enough for him to stand on if he can make it over there - that's where Franky finds Iceberg, passed out and hanging half in the water, both his legs and one arm completely submerged. Outside, Tom lets go of the train and it thunders back down onto its paddle wheels, leveling out. The momentum is enough to pull Franky out of the window and he uses it to make the jump to the pipe where Iceberg is, grabbing onto a rod overhead to keep his balance.
It scalds his hand and he quickly lets it go. He crouches on his toes, grabs the back of Iceberg's shirt and gives him a shake.
"Hey! Iceberg!"
He can hardly hear himself over the rush of his pulse in his ears, the hot air and the hissing bubble of the water. He doesn't expect an answer, anyway, because Iceberg moves limply when Franky shakes him again. Tom sticks his head back in the window to say something, as loud as ever, and Franky hears the sound of it, but can't make out the words. He gives Tom a thumbs up, puts his arms around Iceberg's chest and picks him up - only there's some unexpected resistance that nearly pulls him right back out of Franky's hands.
He hears Tom's voice again as he glares down into the churning water. He keeps a hand flat on Iceberg's back - tells himself he won't be able to feel a breath so there's no point in freaking out that he can't - Iceberg's just fine - and puts his other hand in the water, grabbing the leg of Iceberg's jeans. Franky hisses at the heat, grits his teeth and grabs Iceberg behind the knee. The jeans tear when he pulls, and it takes both of Franky's hands to get Iceberg free.
They're numb and raw by the time he hefts Iceberg up under his arm again, out of the water - he's nothing but dead weight, hanging heavy in Franky's arms, but Franky doesn't even notice. He turns back to the window, feels the words tear out of his throat and hopes that Tom can hear them, "I got 'im, Mr. Tom!" He's shifting his precarious stand on the pipe and looking around, wondering how the hell he's going to get out, now that he's got in - and then the train tips again.
The movement is sharper than before and it knocks Franky clean off his feet.
He's smashing into the window, banging his shoulder and the side of his head, the water rushing up the side of the train and burning the bottoms of his feet. Franky just about loses his grip on Iceberg when Tom reaches in through the window. He pulls them both out as the train eases back upright, an arm around Franky's chest, a hand around Iceberg's tool belt, pulling them both in against his chest. Franky's head is spinning a little, the world moving too fast as Tom carries them way.
The engine is still huffing steam, hissing and sputtering, but all the water's gone out of the boiler. It will eventually burn out all the fuel and cool down on it's own, and Tom gives it plenty of space, sets them down a few yards away. Franky doesn't realize how hard he's holding onto Iceberg until he's the only one holding onto him. He unfists his hands from the front of Iceberg's shirt and drops him hard on the ground. Iceberg falls flat on his back, head rolling limply to the side and bandana skewed, a mess of dark hair. The water pours off of him, spreading and soaking the ground, and he looks for all the world like he's melting away.
He's not moving, and that's not half as scary as the blood down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt - the ugly welt across the side of his forehead that's bleeding pretty heavily.
For a second, Franky's chest feels tight and he can't even move.
The air feels too cold when it hits his lungs, his chest is heaving. When he backs up - at a gesture from Tom out of the corner of his eye - his hands are hot and shaking, legs wobbly. He blurts out, because he notices, "He ain't breathin', is he?!" and Tom doesn't even raise his voice when he tells him to hush.
His has a hand on Iceberg's chest.
A moment later the fishman is leaning back, laughter booming in the air.
Kokoro comes running from warehouse with Yokozuna hopping behind her, wondering "What's happened?" and "What could possibly be so funny, Tom, is Iceberg alright?!" Franky sees the minute movement under wide, webbed fingers - Iceberg's chest rising and falling, a hand twitching up from his side - hears a faint murmur.
A breath gusts out of Franky's lungs - a loud laugh.
-x-
When Iceberg comes to he's propped up on one of the barrels at the kitchen table, something powdery cool over his legs and a shrill ringing in his ears. That doesn't help the pounding ache between his temples at all, and he squeezes his eyes tight before he opens them. His vision is swampy - a mesh of colors and blurred light that tilt and dance before they settle - and his neck hurts. Iceberg groans, slowly lifts his head, but he only feels the vibration in his throat and ears.
He doesn't hear it at all.
Dazed, Iceberg looks around the room as things slip into focus.
His body feels heavy, too hot, and what doesn't feel hot or heavy just hurts.
He can feel a bandage around his head, the tug of medical tape. Vaguely, he remembers hitting it; one of the pipes bursting away from the wall, bright spots of yellow and red. Kokoro is standing in front of him with an open burlap sack cradled in her arms, a stern set to her mouth that Iceberg knows better than to argue with - but whatever she's saying is directed to Franky, not him. It takes him a few seconds to realize this, when Kokoro heaves a sigh and shakes her head.
That's when Iceberg feels the hand on his leg. A firm pat that makes him jolt and look down, a sharp pain that makes him suck in a breath, grit his teeth. It's flour covering his bare legs and feet, dusting the chair and the floor around him, his jeans where they've been cut away. It's on Franky's hand as he quickly pulls it back, leaving a palm-print in the flour above Iceberg's knee, the stark red of his skin underneath.
When Iceberg turns his head - a thick, slow movement that feels like too much spinning - he sees Franky's arms. The angry blisters underneath a layer of flour before Franky tucks his hands into his armpits, hiding them from view. He looks upset, but Iceberg hears that persistent, shrill ringing instead of whatever angry words Franky has for him. Iceberg skims over the idea that perhaps that's a good sign the damage to his hearing isn't permanent as he watches Franky mouth and glare at him.
Franky points fingers at both his own ears, asking a clear question.
White powder puffs off him with each loud gesture.
Iceberg's hand is trembling when he lifts it, the nerves ruined, flour dusting off, but he manages a loose fist and puts a thumb up, offers up a queasy smile. Franky's anger breaks away into a broad grin and he turns. Behind him, Tom is sitting in one of the other chairs from the table, hands on his vast belly, shaking with mirth.
Iceberg doesn't ask about the boiler.
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-BobTAC