given unsought is better

by tediousdelusion

Summary:

Izzy Hands decides to leave the Revenge three months, two weeks, and six days after Stede Bonnet's ship finally catches them. He had tried to pretend, for a time, that not everything has to change just because the Gentleman Fucking Pirates has once again defied the odds - both by rising from the dead and by not dying more permanently on his way to Edward. But Izzy knows as well as anyone that Bonnet is fate’s exception. And Edward’s too, for that matter, rules be damned when the twat is in proximity. So, after the fourteenth time Izzy walks in on a silk-clad conversation about feelings, he decides to pack his bags. He hears that Vane is recruiting. Perhaps he could even get in with Low.

Four days later, he changes his mind.

Or, Izzy Hands learns the difference between being needed and being wanted.

Izzy Hands decides to leave the Revenge three months, two weeks, and six days after Stede Bonnet's ship finally catches them. He had tried to pretend, for a time, that not everything has to change just because the Gentleman Fucking Pirates has once again defied the odds - both by rising from the dead and by not dying more permanently on his way to Edward. But Izzy knows as well as anyone that Bonnet is fate’s exception. And Edward’s too, for that matter, rules be damned when the twat is in proximity. So, after the fourteenth time Izzy walks in on a silk-clad conversation about feelings, he decides to pack his bags. He hears that Vane is recruiting. Perhaps he could even get in with Low.

 

Four days later, he changes his mind.

 

They are taking a ship – Portuguese, merchant, loaded with spice - when suddenly one of the men splayed across the deck jerks upward. Edward has already taken the man's left ear and at least a pint of blood, but he shudders and jerks and reaches for his pistol.

 

Edward sees him do it, watches from just feet away with his sword in his hand. He's dressed in his leathers, his face painted and hair let loose. But when the man moves against him, Edward pauses. He hesitates, if only for a second.

 

Izzy isn't surprised, not entirely. Edward delights in theatre, in arranging his fuckeries and playing games. He doesn't care half as well for finishing the job. Izzy always took on that role for himself. At one point, not so long ago, it had forged them together, made them something close to one. Edward would stage the scene with fear and awe enough to foster a legend, but Izzy was the hand that saw death followed that black spot.

 

Izzy takes back that mantle now, walking the three steps forward so that he may run his sword through the man clawing his way across the deck. He pins him down through the heart, leaving him to squirm just a moment like an insect first tacked to the corkboard.

 

"Good God," Bonnet says, eyes wide where he peers out from behind Edward. Bonnet may have replaced his money with the slightest modicum of common sense, but he still clasps his pearls at any flash of Izzy's practicality. Edward, for his part, gives Izzy a faint nod before moving on across to the quarterdeck.

 

Loath as he is to admit it, the two of them make something of a matched set as they scramble over to the helm. They're both dreamers, doomed to see the world in possibilities instead of eventualities. They planned this most recent fuckery together - some Flying Dutchman bullshit that required painting the entire ship white and whose damage won't be fully uncovered until next careening - and now they stand side by side in their ghostly attire.

 

Izzy has to look away, the visual reminder of Edward's almost death just seconds ago catching him like a boot to the ribs.

 

He unpacks his trunk as soon as the last crate of spice is loaded into the hold and duly logged. His meager things barely fill one drawer of the many that line his cabin, and he puts his head in his hands looking at them there. A spare blanket, a few loose gloves. Tossed among them are a handful maps and the errant coin.

 

He tamps down the feeling that there should be more to show for all these years. He knew what this life was when he signed up for it, and that hasn't changed just because everyone around him has.

 

Though they've certainly changed more in some ways than others. Namely, everyone’s gotten soft and no one has learned how to do the hard things. Edward’s... aversion to killing, at least directly, could be managed. Just another quirk of an eccentric captain. But this crew is just as hesitant, if not more so, and none of them seem to be interested in adapting their ways any time soon. Fang and Ivan could do the job, perhaps, but they don't know Edward like Izzy does, don't watch him with anything more than admiration. Don't have the fear that under that veneer of godhead is just another man, vulnerable as any other.

 

Izzy sighs, runs a hand over his heavy eyes. He loosens his tie and takes off his glove as he stretches across his cot. This is okay. This is fine. If the crew can't kill and the captain can't kill and Stede fucking Bonnet certainly can't kill, then Izzy will do it for them.

 

He has a job this way. One that protects Edward and keeps him happy and maintains the ship in order for another day.

 

He can do this.

 

This is fine.

 

Just like always.

 

 

...

 

 

Descending onto the deck the next morning, Izzy leans on his cane and tries to stifle the worst of his limp. His foot is healed now, at least for the most part, but the injury flares up from time to time, more often than not after raids. Ignoring it is his preferred solution, but when the pain shot up his calf and left him stumbling to catch himself on the cabin door, he conceded that a bit of support may be necessary.

 

Really, he should have fought harder to keep aboard the crew from Ed's kraken stint. Sure, they were rough and brutal and perhaps a bit less professional than Izzy would have liked. But they also could have started the morning shift without Izzy breathing down their necks from the first light of dawn.

 

"Mr. Spriggs," Izzy sighs, spotting the man leaning on the mainmast and smiling to himself as he doodles something in his ever-present journal. "I assume you have a good reason why you aren't repairing the sails." He raises an eyebrow as he looks to where an errant cannonball had put a hole in their top foresail.

 

Lucius huffs, shrugging his shoulders as he snaps shut the log. "Yes, Izzy, I'm actually very busy..." As he looks up, his gaze settles on the cane in Izzy's hand. His lips press into a thin line, jaw clenched. Then, he shifts his weight to the side and crosses his arms. "But it can wait. I guess. While I, um, fix the sail."

 

"Glad to hear it." Izzy walks over and sits on the steps to the quarterdeck. "Now, get to it."

 

"Right." Lucius stands with his hands on his hips, head tilted upward toward the sail. At least he appears to be looking at the right one, which Izzy takes as some minor improvement. "I definitely know how to get it down, but, if I didn't, just hypothetically speaking, how would you do that?"

 

Izzy rolls his eyes and puts his palms on his knees, bracing himself to stand up again. Not a fucking moment of peace on this ship. "Ivan can show you."

 

Lucius waves him off. "I can go find him."

 

"If this is some kind of ploy to get out of work..." Izzy starts.

 

But Edward takes this moment to appear from wherever the fuck he's been. He puts a hand on Izzy's shoulder and shoves him back down. "He said he would do it, mate. Let him handle it."

 

Izzy grumbles, but lets Lucius go as Edward settles down beside him. Ed flinches a bit as he does, taking a hand to his knee and massaging it around the brace. The weather is fickle this time of year, all too often leaving Ed with aching joints and Izzy with a pounding in his skull he can't ever shake.

 

"Getting old, Iz," he says as he leans back on the step behind him, spreading his arms wide across it. "See what this shit does to us?"

 

"Not the years that did this one, Edward." Izzy shuffles his foot as he says it, not wanting to be mistaken but unable to fully bear the burden of the truth spoken aloud. That Edward did this, left another mark on Izzy that he will carry forever. That sometimes he thinks he might be nothing more than a collection of Edward's marks, arranged in the shape of a man.

 

"Yeah." Edward's breath hitches as he carries on. "Suppose that one was me." He taps Izzy on the shoulder, waiting for him to make eye contact before he continues. "I'm, uh, sorry. I don't know if I've said it before. I was fucked up and all that, but you're my first mate. I, uh, I shouldn't have done what I did."

 

Izzy shudders the impulse to run away from this conversation, mainly because he isn’t certain he could run at the moment. They don't talk about this sort of thing. He runs a hand across the handle of his cane as he taps it on the deck. "'S what it is," he bites out. "I shouldn't've said what I did. Could have expected worse, on other ships."

 

"This isn't other ships. You didn't deserve it."

 

He didn't. Izzy fucking knows that. But... "Since when do we get what we deserve?"

 

Lucius, somehow sensing the worst moment to appear, takes Ed's brief silence as his cue to stroll back across the deck with Ivan in tow. He stops by Izzy to hold out a dented mug. "Here. Thought you might like some morning coffee."

 

Izzy takes it hesitantly, venturing a sniff and then the smallest of sips, as he tries to judge what might have been done to it.

 

"It was just a nice thought, you suspicious bastard." Izzy just glares at him and so Lucius sighs, melodramatically shrugging his entire body as he does. "This is the part where you say, 'Thank you, Lucius.'"

 

"Get back to work."

 

"I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee," Ed cuts in. "If you're offering."

 

Lucius curls his lip. "I wasn't." He spins on his heel and marches away without another word. Ivan shoots Ed a sympathetic look, but follows Lucius all the same, gesturing to the rigging as they cross the ship and presumably explaining how the running lines all work.

 

"Just there," Ed chuckles. "That's an example of getting what I deserve."

 

Izzy furrows his brow. "It's insubordination is what it is."

 

Ed grins, that kind of amused look that Izzy hasn't seen in far too long, that lights up his eyes. With his beard still short, he looks like he did when they were both young and foolish and far too bold.

 

He looks like the kind of man Izzy could fall straight to hell for.

 

Edward sits forward to take Izzy's coffee out of his hand, ignoring any protest and scrunching his nose as he takes a sip. Unlike some people on this vessel, Izzy is a grown man and he takes his coffee black. Not whatever concoction of sugar and cream Ed tries to claim is preferable.

 

They pass the mug between them as the rest of the crew files on deck and reluctantly resumes their posts. Izzy barks a few orders, which are actually heeded for once, with Edward at his side. The world in order, if only for a moment.

 

That is, until the mug runs empty and Ed taps Izzy on the shoulder as he stands up.

 

"Right, then. I think you should take the day off, Iz."

 

Izzy's cane clatters to the floor. Ed scoops down to pick it up and then lends Izzy a hand, pulling him up to standing. "I don't think that would be appropri-"

 

"Captain's orders! And we wouldn't want any more insubordination, would we?" He winks before he turns to cross the deck, nearly skipping if not for his knee.

 

And Izzy is left to figure out what the fuck a day off means.

 

 

...

 

 

Every other day that Izzy has had free from work came about because of injury or sickness or some other misfortune enough to confine him to his bunk. He spent those days sleeping, usually in a booze and opioid induced haze, and his memories are foggy. Edward floated in and out, sometimes looking weary and sleepless himself, and always seeming more worried than was justified.

 

Now, with his wits and his health more or less intact, he isn't sure what to do, but supposes a bit more sleep can't be a bad start. Never really had enough of it, and seems an easy enough solution to the boredom problem. He walks back to his cabin, takes off his shoes, and lies down in his bunk.

 

It's a brilliant plan for all of about two hours, at which point, Izzy wakes to the disappointing realization that it isn't even lunch.

 

He rights himself, stretches, and then goes to organize his things. Only to find that, yes, of course, they are already organized. He did it last night.

 

Everything else he would normally do on his own - inventory the supplies, inspect the rigging, schedule hull maintenance - could rightly be classified as work. He toys, however briefly, with the idea of disobeying his orders, but someone on this fucking ship should know his place and so, with great reluctance, he reaches underneath his cot to pull out one of the volumes he's nabbed from Bonnet's library.

 

He maintains that a whole library, and particularly one next to a fire on a fucking wooden vessel, is a disgraceful misuse of space. A few books would be one thing - he's not averse to a good narrative. His mother read to him, when he was a boy, and he picked up the habit of reading to himself in the Navy.

 

Of course, all that had to go once he abandoned his post for piracy. Nothing as fragile as a book would survive, between the damp and the thievery of shared quarters. Trying to keep a novel from destruction in his hammock would have been a lost cause, not even accounting for the mess it would have been to try and light a candle to see the fucking thing.

 

But then he had become first mate, gotten his own cabin, had Blackbeard at his side. If the occasional tome went missing from the prize ship, well... No one had to know.

 

He gets through two acts before the shadows shorten enough that he can guarantee lunch is being served in the galley. Hiding the book back away, he slips out of his cabin as quietly as he can, the tap of his cane echoing off the halls.

 

Most of the crew, have already taken the midday meal by the time Izzy arrives. Only Buttons stands in the corner, breaking off pieces of bread to feed to the bird perched on his head. He acknowledges Izzy with only an upward tilt of his eyes, unable to nod without disturbing his... companion.

 

"Think fast!" Roach calls from the kitchen, and Izzy turns to catch the sandwich being tossed his way. All of his food seems to arrive this way since Roach's return. At least he has stopped aiming for the head, though that change seemed to have come about only after Izzy got rather good at either catching.

 

Izzy peels back the corner of the paper wrapper to inspect the midday meal. Since losing access to Bonnet's fortune, the galley has started producing foods that Izzy both recognizes and can pronounce and today is no exception. Meat, cheese, bread. All look to be adequate quality and are held together with some sort of sauce. Roach is a pretty good cook, as far as galley cooks go - good enough that Izzy had come to regret marooning him after only a few days of Ivan's pitiful attempts at stew.

 

He tucks his food under his arm and, desperate to avoid any other crew members on his involuntary vacation, heads below decks to the orlop. The only thing stored here is spare rope, has been ever since the auxiliary drapes went overboard, and Izzy figures it might grant him a moment's peace.

 

The moment lasts about thirty seconds before a knife goes flying by his ear and lodges itself into one of the coiled ropes.

 

"Jimenez," Izzy sighs. They've been doing this more often lately. Izzy approves - it keeps the men on their toes, and he likes to watch them flinch - but he could do without the property damage. At least to things that matter. He takes the dagger, wiggling the handle to set it free, and throws it back, letting it dig into the wood behind Jim. "You're going to ruin the ropes."

 

"Why are you down here? Shouldn't you be up yelling at Lucius to swab the deck? Or, I don't know, polish the cannonballs?" Jim's eyes are just visible, peeking out from beneath their hat.

 

"Wanted some time away from those imbeciles. Thought you of all people could understand that."

 

The knife flies by again, this time landing in the wall next to Izzy's head. He rolls his eyes, but leans back against the beams, glad to get some weight off of his foot.

 

"You're pretty good," Jim says. "With knives, that is. Everyone else is shit."

 

Instinctively, Izzy wants to defend Ed's honor, but Jim is right. Ed is great with a knife when it's firm in his hand, but as soon as it becomes airborne, all bets are off as to where it will land. The few times that Edward has gotten drunk enough to play darts with the things, they've found purchase most often in the ceiling, but also in Calico Jack, the bar, the floor, Ed's own foot, and - on one infamous occasion - Izzy's fucking thigh.

 

Jim nods for Izzy to throw back the knife and so he does, this time wedging it in the space between two planks. "How about a bet?" they ask.

 

"Bet for what?"

 

"Loser has to answer a question. Truthfully."

 

"Stupid fucking thing to bet. Don't any of you twats know yet that you gamble money?"

 

"We can't when we don't have any fucking money."

 

And if that's not the goddamn truth. Edward may have some money personally - stored in an account that didn't ask too many questions and protected with a hefty bribe - but the ship had been hemorrhaging funds. The Kraken loved to raid ships, to cause havoc and destruction and mayhem. But for all his love of taking merchant goods, he didn't care half as well for fencing them. Silks, spices, and teas were all thrown overboard, while booze was usually consumed before making it to port.

 

They're starting to turn things around now, the deficit not nearly what it was, but they're still decidedly in the red and so the crew's shares had been... meager, as of late.

 

"Playing games is a waste of time."

 

"Okay. If you're that scared to lose, we don't have to play." Jim wriggles their eyebrows.

 

Izzy huffs. "What are the rules?"

 

Fifteen minutes, three attempted murders, and one truce later, Jim pulls up two stools and tacks a crudely drawn target on the far wall. Izzy eyes the stools suspiciously as Jim sits. "Better aim if we stand."

 

Jim shrugs. "Upper deck's too low."

 

That might be true for Ed and Wee John and even fucking Bonnet without his heels, but Izzy doesn't need reminded that he and Jim are the shortest on the crew. They've both already stood without needing to crane their necks from hitting the solid oak planks above them. He sits anyway, scowling but stretching out his leg.

 

They've decided on five rounds, three throws per round. Jim wins the first, tossing the knives almost lazily into the dead center of the target. But then Izzy comes through with a victory in the second, grinning smugly when his last dagger wedges itself between two of Jim's. The competition heats up after that until they're in the last round, still tied, both leaning forward on their stills to try and somehow gain an upper hand by being inches closer to the board.

 

Izzy tosses his last knife, breath held as it flies through the air until... bullseye! A guaranteed win.

 

Until, of fucking course, Jim cocks their head to the side and drives their knife even more perfectly into the center, not even a hair off the mark, somehow buried in the wood near up to the hilt.

 

Izzy could bitch and whine and pitch a fit, but he knows when he's lost and so he just leans back and crosses his arms.

 

"Well, Jimenez, what the fuck do you want to know?"

 

"Oh, woah, woah." Jim holds up their hands. "Not so fast. Nothing said I have to ask the question now."

 

"So what, you plan to just hold it over my head like a fucking threat?"

 

"Not everything's a threat, you freak. I just want to take my time. Might even take me a few days."

 

Izzy stands, insult on the tip of his tongue. Jim, seeing the writing on the wall, springs to their feet, knocking the stool over in the process and hand reaching toward the knife hidden in their jacket pocket.

 

They both turn at the sound of a throat clearing near the ladder. "So, uh, guess I'm interrupting then?"

 

"No, Olu," Jim chimes. "I was just coming back to the main deck. I, uh, think Izzy wants me to polish the cannonballs."

 

"Yeah, right, but I don't think that you polish cannonballs? And they’re not stored on the main deck."

 

"Well, Izzy wants it done." Jim grabs Oluwande by the forearm as they pass by, raising their eyebrows and communicating something - God may know but Izzy sure as shit doesn't - with what must be a full minute of eye contact.

 

"Right." Oluwande shuffles back up the ladder. "To polishing then." They clatter back up to the main deck with enough racket to alert Davy Jones himself, and Izzy sits back down on the stool, rubbing at his temples.

 

At least he's finally alone.

 

Just like he wanted.

 

 

...

 

 

Release from Izzy’s Ed-imposed vacation comes the next day. His foot, admittedly, feels better than it normally would so close to a flare up, but he doesn't tell Ed. He just stalks the deck, growling commands and correcting the never-ending errors from the crew of the Revenge.

 

They all grumble and gripe, but a week later, when Buttons spots a ship on the horizon and the captains decide to take her, he doesn't hear any complaints that the ship is still afloat and not dragging them all to a watery grave. Without all of the barnacles slowing them down, they even manage to catch the merchantmen, a minor miracle by itself.

 

No time for a fuckery, they raid the ship just like Izzy has hundreds of others in his life. First comes the canon fire, broadsides exposed as they saddle up beside her. The merchant captain must be panicking now - they all do, once the fact dawns upon them that they cannot outrun Blackbeard. A smart captain would give up by now, and most do, the word spreading that Bonnet's flag (or combination of flags, an embarrassing situation to remedy another day) is as deadly as Blackbeard's. This captain, though, is young, foolish, ready to prove himself. With his golden hair and, frankly, ridiculous feathered hat, he reminds Izzy a little too much of a certain pirate-loving twat.

 

Once the canons have stilled and the ships are close enough to touch, they launch their grappling hooks and nets. A more seasoned crew would jump to the nets now, but the men are still unsteady as new born colts on the ropes and so Izzy has gang planks laid.

 

Ivan and Fang are the first across. Izzy used to take that position for himself, back when he was younger and bolder and head of the vanguard. He would probably still have it, if it wasn't for Edward pulling him aside after a particularly close call, holding him tight and whispering those words. "I need you, Iz."

 

Izzy still goes second, followed by Bonnet and then Edward and then the rest of the crew. His strategy is fairly simple, all things considered. He will cut his way through these men until he can get to either the mainmast or the far gunwale. Then, with the need to watch his back gone, he can turn his gaze toward Edward and Bonnet, making sure that the former doesn't gesture for his assistance and that the latter doesn't get himself killed.

 

The men on this ship are just as green as their captain, and Izzy almost feels bad for the way he dispatches them one after the other. At least most of them live, falling to the deck with only a handful of cuts to their arms or torsos. A few get run through, but Izzy tries for the left side, knowing that they don't have the kind of steal to push through the injury.

 

Bonnet trails behind him, managing to fend off the one or two attacks that come his way. He and the merchant sailors are evenly matched adversaries, both of them announcing their next move before they make it, their feints obvious and their blows halting. Turning his eyes across the deck, Izzy sees many of the Revenge crew making the same faults and makes a mental note to amend his drills for the next month.

 

They are improving, though Izzy is hard pressed to admit it in so many words. Even Bonnet. He isn't an asset to the crew, not by far, but he's slowly making himself less of a liability.

 

Which comes in pretty fucking handy when one of the only fighters on the crew makes a move toward their trio. Ed is already occupied taking on four men at once, a situation which would give Izzy pause if it weren't for the way he is nearly dancing between them, playing one off the other and lapping in their terrified zeal to be so close to a legend. Bonnet has his hands full with a single man - teen, really, can't be more than sixteen - and so Izzy grabs the pistol from his hip and aims.

 

He snarls when the bullet lodges in the man's shoulder instead of his head. He has an axe, is twirling it in his hands, which speaks more to experience than to training. An axe is easier to learn, easier to swing, but with only one edge, it's a less versatile weapon. Still, Izzy's rapier is hardly going to deflect the fucking thing and so he grabs a cutlass form one of the men at his feet before reluctantly abandoning his place by the mast.

 

The man is already swinging wildly by the time Izzy is within range, relying more on surprise than any sort of skill. Against a less weathered opponent, his flailing would likely land a few blows. He's got at least eight inches in height and probably sixty pounds on Izzy. Fighting him is like bracing against a storm, but with Edward otherwise occupied, Izzy is without a lifeline.

 

Izzy dodges left, then feints right before getting in a swipe at the man's ankle. He comes back at Izzy with a swing from the left, which Izzy blocks with less finesse than he would like. He's fought over the years with almost every style of blade there is, but this isn't his blade, and frustration is threatening to make him sloppy. He hates fights like this, which force him to dance around, resting on speed and grace he had decades ago, but which he feels fading away with every year.

 

The next opening Izzy gets, he takes, ducking under the man's raised arm to drive the cutlass into his gut. The man screams, shudders. He tries to drive the axe down into Izzy's bowed form, but Izzy is too quick, using the man's own body as a shield as he moves behind him, hand still gripping the hilt as he pulls the wound open wider and deeper.

 

The man falls to his knees and Izzy pushes him down, boot on his neck as he drives the blade again and again into his back.

 

Once the spill of blood starts to slow, Izzy wipes his blade on his pantleg, straightens his cravat as he stands, and swallows the urge to scream. He can feel already the adrenaline pouring out of his limbs, can predict the way that the fight will leave him tired and whimpering by nightfall.

 

"Captain," Izzy calls. Both Edward and Bonnet look at him, but Izzy only has one captain, no matter what anyone else might pretend. "Can we wrap this up?"

 

Edward gets that coy smile he sometimes pulls when he wants to get under Izzy's skin. He makes sure Izzy sees it before he turns back to dueling the last of the four men, toying with the poor fuck like a cat with a mouse. "Come on, Iz. I'm just starting to have fun here."

 

Izzy doesn't say anything, just lets the faintest hint of the exhaustion he feels show in his eyes and his stance. Edward knows, may not read books but can read Izzy. He catches it out of the corner of his eye, runs his blade through the man's thigh, and sighs. "Fine, fine. Guess this is last call."

 

With Blackbeard now both bored and unoccupied, the teenager still fighting Bonnet surrenders. He tosses his cutlass at Bonnet's feet and raises his hands in appeasement. Edward huffs, clearly wanting more of a fight, and saunters over to the quarterdeck to drag the captain out from where he's hiding behind the helm.

 

Before Ed can reach the captain, before a formal surrender can be tendered, the bosun heaves himself onto his elbows from where he lies among the wounded, braces his palms on the deck, and spits on the boots of the teen. "Should be ashamed of yourself," he sneers. His voice has a wet rasp that means Izzy must have hit lung. "Giving up? And to a fucking poof?"

 

The bosun takes a heaving breath, preparing himself for the next insult to pass his lips. He never gets to it. Izzy runs his blade through the man's heart. Watches as the blood spurts once, twice, three times, before the body stills.

 

Bonnet looks disgusted, a splatter of blood coating his face and staining his white shirt.

 

"Well, that was a bit much, wouldn't you say?" Bonnet takes out a handkerchief and dabs at his face.

 

"We have a reputation to maintain. As long as you sail with Blackbeard, that means you, too."

 

"Reputation? The Gentleman Pirate kills with kindness! Not... stabbing!"

 

Izzy narrows his eyes, shifts his stance. "And how many people have died of kindness?"

 

"I suppose there was that one fellow with the parasol..." Bonnet looks up, thinking. "But I just can't believe that this amount of stabbing is really necessary over an insult."

 

"Believe it. Or get yourself killed. I don't really care either way." Ever oblivious, Bonnet doesn't seem to notice the lie, doesn't catch the way that Izzy's voice lilts into an accent he's long given up on trying to shake. Doesn't realize all of the goddamn work Izzy puts into keeping the twat alive.

 

"How much of the, um, stabbing have you done? For Ed, that is?"

 

Izzy shakes his head. "Don't ask fucking stupid questions, Bonnet."

 

He stalks off to join Edward before Bonnet can reply. Ed has the merchant captain at gunpoint on the quarterdeck, parading him out to announce the surrender to his men. The captain's silk jacket is dirtied with muck from the deck and powder from the canons. His expression is somewhere between shock and desperation as he pleads for his life.

 

As soon as he's in range, Izzy punches him hard enough to knock the feathered hat from his head. The captain reels, falls to his knees, and Izzy kicks him on the ribs hard enough to feel a pleasing crack. "Shut the fuck up," Izzy mutters. "And just maybe Blackbeard will spare you."

 

If Edward prefer that Izzy use kindness, he certainly doesn’t say it. Just tilts his head and lifts the man back to his feet by the scruff of his coat.

 

...

 

 

The next three ships surrender, for which Izzy is grateful. He doesn't know how many more fights he has left in him. Then again, he doesn't know how to live without fighting. Supposes that's a bridge he'll cross - or potentially jump off - when he gets to it.

 

But then the ship after that is a fight, and the one four after that, and suddenly the ratios start to shift. More ships refuse to surrender, even as the crew ekes its way toward proficiency. Edward is happy with the change, devising increasingly complicated fuckeries with Bonnet, locked away in their cabin for long hours as they scheme and plot. He even ushers Izzy in from time to time, wants someone to play devil's advocate to his and Bonnet's unbridled optimism.

 

Izzy isn't so sure that the devil needs any more advocates, not with the way things are going. He's never loved the fight like Ed does, never needed it, though he was always willing enough to do what needed to be done. Surrender was just easier, cleaner. More money for less work.

 

Some of the crew feels the same.

 

The third time that Lucius is forced to go over the side, gun held in his shaky hand, he stays close to Izzy the whole fight. It’s a smarter strategy than most of the crew have, and almost guarantees that the useless twat won’t be needed. When it's over and Lucius' gun still remains unfired, Izzy sends him down to take stock of the hold.

 

A few moments later, over the still of the deck, his voice calls up. "Izzy?" And then, when there is no response, a sigh. "Mr. Hands? Your assistance, please."

 

Izzy mutters under his breath as he heads below duck, hunching over so as not to hit his head on the low beams.

 

"Mr. Spriggs? Just read what's printed on the crates and come report to me. You've made it quite clear that reading may be your only skill."

 

"I can write and draw, too, Izzy. Don't pretend you forgot. But that's not the point."

 

"The point, then? Some time today, Mr. Spriggs."

 

Lucius taps on the crate at his side. "They're just linens. And dishware. Tin, too, not even good China."

 

Izzy doesn't need Lucius to finish his thought, but he does anyway. "Why would they fight so hard over this? I mean, it's not junk but..." But it isn't worth the loss of men, the damage to the vessel.

 

The thought doesn't go anywhere that Izzy can tolerate, not now with the thrill of the fight starting to drain away, and so he pushes the question from his mind.

 

He finds his answer a week later, when they dock in Nassau and give the crew shore leave after finally, gloriously turning a profit.

 

Izzy hates Spanish Jackie's, always has and likely always will, ever since Calico Jack vomited on his boots and Ed got him drunk enough not to notice. But he goes there all the same, pulls up a stool in the corner and waits for the gossip to roll in. At least this latest husband is a better bartender than the last one.

 

Two hours later, he is running to find the captains. Or, well. The captain and Bonnet. They've rented out Ed's usual room at the tavern next door. Izzy has spent a lifetime in that room - watching after Ed and cleaning up his messes and making a few messes of his own - and nearly broken its door off the hinges on at least three separate occasions.

 

Before, he would just barge in. There are few states in which Izzy hasn't already seen Edward. They passed the ability for embarrassment somewhere around their fifth year as captain and first mate. At least, Izzy had thought as much until he marched into the captain's cabin to find Edward face down and Bonnet performing an act he has since tried desperately to erase from his memory.

 

He lets go of the doorknob and knocks. "Edward! Bonnet! Open the fuck up!" At the sound of mumbling behind the door he adds. "Put on some fucking trousers and get to it."

 

Edward comes to open the door, notably not wearing breeches, but at least covered by one of the loose dressing gowns Bonnet had Frenchie and Wee John craft out of the linens from the last raid. Izzy pushes past him and into the room where Bonnet is at the corner table, fussing with a tea pot in his own matching attire.

 

"We need to talk about this," he says, holding out the flyer he'd broken two noses to acquire.

 

"Hmmm..." Edward glances at it, then takes it from Izzy to smooth out the paper. "Don't know why this is so important, Iz. It's not like this is the first wanted poster out for me. Though, the likeness on this one is impressive."

 

"Fuck your likeness. Look at the bounty. A thousand pounds for the captain who brings you in alive or dead. Plus, bonuses for the crew and a pension for casualties." Izzy jabs one finger at the offending text. "We'll never rest with this. No ship in their right mind would surrender when that kind of money is on the line."

 

"Fuck." Edward walks over to show the poster to Bonnet, whose lips are pinched tight in worry, leaving him blessedly silent.

 

Bonnet reads the flyer, dumps his tea out the window and fills the teacup with a bottle of rum pulled from the drawer. He pours a second cup for Edward and then raises an eyebrow toward Izzy. Izzy doesn't hesitate, just holds out his hand and wills himself not to see the delicate pattern on the cup he's given.

 

"I suppose this is about leaving the Academy," Bonnet finally says, his voice a bit raspy from the rum.

 

"Poster says piracy, high treason, petty treason, desertion, grand larceny, petty larceny, public intoxication, and other offenses against the state." Izzy takes a long drag from his cup.

 

"How do you think treason can be petty?"

 

"I don't bloody know, Edward!" The rum almost sloshes out of Izzy's cup as he gestures. "Should I go get you a lawyer to ask?"

 

"Well, if you come across one, Iz, it couldn't hurt."

 

"We don't need yet another fop in a silk shirt - we need to do something!" Bonnet murmurs something about his shirt being cotton, but Izzy presses on. "It'll only get worse, the more people know about this."

 

Bonnet clears his throat. "Especially if... well..."

 

"Spit it out, Bonnet."

 

"If they start offering pardons, along with the reward. Pirates can't collect, not without risking arrest, but if Chauncey was willing to overlook Izzy's indiscretions for me, then..."

 

Ed sits down on the bed. "Fuck." He rests his elbows on his knees and presses his eyes into his palms. "Fuck."

 

"You said it, boss." Having exercised his allotment of willpower for the day - perhaps for the whole year - Izzy gives into the impulse to slump down by Edward's feet, back pressed against the bed and shoulder brushing his calf.

 

When Izzy gestures for Bonnet to pass the rum, he does so without comment, filling his own glass before handing the bottle to Izzy.

 

After the rum is gone and the sun is set, they finally talk. Listing their options, each less palatable than the last, is easier like this. He doesn't have to see the way Ed must flinch, doesn't have to bear Bonnet's judgment for his role in this mess. He isn't nearly as tempted to give Bonnet a black eye for the part that the gilded prat played in this misfortune.

 

In the end, they figure they have three choices.

 

One, keep on as normal, even as the fights get harder and the enemies mount. The pro is that nothing has to change. The con is that they'll probably all fucking die.

 

Two, fake Blackbeard's death. The very obvious pro being that they could collect their own reward money - a thought which Ed finds so incredibly funny that he votes for the option immediately. The cost, though, makes Izzy sick to think about. An entire lifetime of work, gone. His place in the world, gone. He shoves his self-pity aside.

 

Three, leave. To where? Who fucking knows! English speaking ports are all out of the question and they'd be hard pressed to find a country speaking ecclesiastical Latin. To do what? Again, an excellent but unanswered inquiry. Ed had suggested running a bar. Bonnet had thought of giving tours. Izzy preferred launching himself through the window and avoiding this conversation all together.

 

His inclination toward autodefenestration only grew stronger when Bonnet added, "Well, there is a fourth option. We could always retire."

 

The shouting match that ensues could likely wake the entire inn. Bonnet tries to insist that with Edward's fortune, they could certainly just disappear into luxurious obscurity. But without Bonnet's name - without any connection to legitimacy - what will that get them in any honest port? Suspicion, that's what will follow them. No genius needed to figure out the guy rolling into town with a ship's worth of untraceable gold just might be a legally dubious figure. Not to mention that half of Edward's assets would need to be fenced, converted to something more liquid. And this wasn't even considering the topic of Bonnet's beloved little crew.

 

"You've made your point, Izzy," Edward intervenes just as Izzy is gearing up to overturn the table.

 

Izzy and Bonnet both cross their arms and shuffle in place like scolded children. “The sun’s about to be up,” Izzy complains after the silence drags on. “Should get some sleep.” He grabs the flyer back and heads out to the door.

 

“You could stay here,” Bonnet offers, some sad mimicry of reconciliation.

 

Izzy slams the door in response.

 

 

...

 

 

They don't say anything to the crew. At least, not at first. Bonnet is avoiding the topic of their impending doom with every fiber of his being, purposefully obfuscating Izzy's every attempt to pressure the twat into making a goddamn decision. Edward, meanwhile, appears to have forgotten entirely and is spending his time amusing the few crew members not holding a grudge about their abandonment or capture.

 

So, mainly Buttons.

 

"Dinnae worry much about it, cap'n," Buttons had explained when asked. "'Tis not the first time I've been marooned, and if a certain Portuguese fortune teller is to be believed, it will nae be the last."

 

Roach joins them from time to time, and Frenchie has started to come around, which means that Wee John isn't far away.

 

Bonnet is usually nearby, as well, if he isn't hiding from Izzy. Which is why Izzy is so unnerved to find Bonnet sliding up to his customary place along the fo'c'stle rail and nudging his arm with a mug of coffee.

 

"Yes, Captain?" he asks, trying to instill the word with as much disdain as he can muster.

 

"I was wondering if you might show me the ropes around here," Bonnet says. He's avoiding eye contact, which is unlike him, and scuffing his toe as he grinds one boot against the deck. "Literally, that is. No matter what we have to do about our, erm, predicament, I reckon knowing more about the ship can't hurt. Might have to actually do some pirating without Ed for a bit if it gets bad, so... He said you could teach me what I need to know."

 

The clouds may as well part and let Izzy ascend to heaven now. No earthly pleasure could top this - Stede fucking Bonnet admitting for once in his silver spoon life that he needed help from Izzy fucking Hands. He wanted the moment carved into stone, memorialized in oil paints. But of course, that useless fucking scribe is nowhere to be found when there is something worthy of recordation.

 

Izzy almost tells Bonnet no, to fuck off. He can feel the words at the back of his throat, already formed. If Bonnet wants to learn about the ship, he can do it the same way as everyone else: by watching, mimicking, and getting flogged when he inevitably fucks up.

 

But Ed will never let Izzy flog Bonnet and the man looks so goddamn hopeful that Izzy just shrugs, huffs, and says, "Fine." He takes a sip of his coffee. "We'll start with the rigging."

 

From that point on, Bonnet makes it has life's work to trail behind Izzy asking a series of questions so inane that they have never before been considered by the common man. He asks about the canon wicks, the push brooms, the lamp oil. He follows with a parade of whys and hows and what ifs. At this rate, the idiot is going to want to know how many angels could dance on the head of the mizzenmast.

 

The situation reaches its peak when Izzy makes an offhand comment about needing the sextant to plot a course. Bonnet freezes midstride. He looks puzzled, which isn't new, but the blush creeping across his cheeks certainly is. Weird fucking little prat. If he and Edward are using the instruments in whatever games they play, Izzy has no desire to know.

 

"Is that really necessary?" Bonnet squeaks.

 

Izzy sighs. "Yes, Bonnet. Not really another way until the stars are out."

 

"Right..." Bonnet fiddles with his sleeve. "And you're absolutely sure that the two of us need to do this together."

 

"I already said, I don't see any other way it'll bloody get done."

 

"Okay." Bonnet straightens up, set to the task. "So where do I find this tent?"

 

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

 

"The sex tent! You just told me we needed it!"

 

"Sextant, Bonnet! You bloody fucking wanker!"

 

Izzy storms off to his cabin as the realization begins to dawn in Bonnet's eyes. He locks to door, determined to ignore Bonnet for the rest of the day, if not the rest of eternity.

 

He succeeds for the day, at least, pointedly ignoring Bonnet's entreaties from the other side of the door.

 

"I, um, found the sextant," Bonnet says after his knocking yielded no results. "And Buttons has helpfully informed me that the item I was thinking of is a called a fuck tent, not a sex tent. Maybe we should get one for the crew next careening..."

 

Izzy takes a long pull from the flask he keeps stashed at the foot of his cot, waiting until Bonnet to slinks away to go cry to Edward. With any luck, this will put Bonnet off his little project entirely, maybe give Izzy a bit of a reprieve.

 

But then Bonnet brings Izzy a mug the next morning, and Edward nods his approval from across the way. Izzy takes the coffee and shuffles over to the gunwale to inspect the rigging. Bonnet shuts up more than he has in months as he follows along, and maybe actually learns something. He ties a clove hitch without instruction and well enough that it doesn't have to be redone. He even reties a bowline knot where one of Jim's knifes nicked the fraying rope.

 

By the end of the next week, Izzy has to admit that Bonnet is not completely intolerable. His questions have slowly shifted into the realm of useful information, and he is a reliable source of midday beverages. Usually coffee, but sometimes tea, and at least once an agreeably dry port wine. Izzy has only been tempted to break his nose twice a day, on average, which puts him above most of the crew.

 

This afternoon, they've finished on the main deck and are in the hull, taking stock of supplies. "This is the logbook," Izzy says, holding out a thin, rectangular book. "'S to keep track of all the supplies and winnings on board. We have to count everything, what it is, and write it down with-"

 

"With an estimation of the value. To calculate whether we can pay the crew."

 

Izzy raises a speculative eyebrow. "Since when do you know about accounts?"

 

"Since this was my job." Bonnet takes the book and gestures for Izzy to hand him to quill. "The crew and I had to spend a bit of time on another vessel, before we could catch up with you and Ed. This was my job, when I wasn't hauling crates."

 

Izzy snorts. "You're certainly not a rigger." And then, before he can stop himself. "This was my first job, too. Moving crates, doing the books."

 

"How fun! Something we have in common."

 

Izzy sits down on a nearby crate as Bonnet gets started, muttering to himself about how fun isn't exactly an apt word for the work. Bonnet ignores him and catalogues the crates, interjecting his own commentary as he does, the occasional "oh good, we have gruyere" and "you really do have excellent penmanship, Izzy."

 

Izzy lets Bonnet finish the work, then double checks it.

 

"Looks like we'll be set for another month!" Bonnet adds cheerily as Izzy looks at the logbook. "Might even be able to pay the crew again, once we fence a few things."

 

Izzy sighs. "And then what? We'll have to take ships again, which means you and Edward need to make a decision. We can't avoid telling the crew forever."

 

"You're a real buzzkill, Izzy." Bonnet sits down on one of the crates, his knee knocking into Izzy's. "But you're right." Bonnet plays with one of his rings, twisting it around his finger. "What would you do?"

 

"Dunnno. Not really my job. Edward makes the plans. I just make sure that they happen."

 

"Yes, but you have to have some sense for his plans, after all these years."

 

"There's no good way out of this. Don't you get it? Either we give up Blackbeard, and we have to fight to take every ship. Or we don't, and we have to fight even harder! People fucking surrendered to us before you came along."

 

Bonnet bristles. He straightens his spine and curls his lip in that way that makes Izzy think he's going to ask to see a manager. Almost nostalgic that expression. Izzy hasn't seen it so often since even dumber men than Bonnet used it to pull rank in the Navy. But then, just as he is really puffing himself up, he deflates again. "Do you always worry about him like this?" He doesn't wait for Izzy to answer. "I can't imagine a decade like this."

 

"Three decades," Izzy snaps. "That I've known Edward. I don't have to imagine it." He snaps shut the log book. Then, in a moment's pettiness, he knocks over the inkwell. "Clean that up before you come back up."

 

The ink is still under Bonnet's fingernails when he slinks up onto the main deck half an hour later. It stains the edges of the scone he's holding, clearly freshly nicked from the galley. Izzy doesn't say anything, just sips his coffee and stares out at the sea, waiting for Bonnet to start his diatribe.

 

Bonnet sighs and leans forward on the rail. His shoulders slump with an exhaustion Izzy is more used to seeing in the mirror than anywhere else. "Like it or not, we're the only people on this ship that know what it's like to really worry for him." What a bleak fucking fraternity that is.

 

Bonnet breaks the scone in half, offers up one piece to Izzy. Izzy takes it, keeps to himself that it's a waste of sugar and fruit, and dunks it straight into his mug of coffee. Bonnet makes a satisfying grimace as Izzy eats his now moistened pastry, but he doesn't move away. He scoots his hand closer along the rail and turns his eyes to the sea with what might even be kinship. Izzy could retreat, but he lets his hand stay where it is. Misery, they say, loves company.

 

 

...

 

 

Bonnet is losing to Ed, like he always does when they play cards. Fucking idiot can't imagine that anyone would cheat. Izzy, frankly doesn't remember how to play without cheating and he knows that Ed is just the same. Both of them used to keep a few aces up their sleeves aboard Hornigold's ship. Quite literally, too. Izzy had sewn a pocket into his shirt sleeve specifically to fleece Calico Jack out of his poker winnings.

 

Izzy would never admit to Bonnet's face, but he deserves a bit of a rest, at least more than any of the rest of the crew. He's spent the past few days insisting on "learning by doing" - something he found in some dusty old book of his - and so Izzy was more than obliged to send him over the side this morning to scrape barnacles with his own two hands. After weeks of his fucking questions, Bonnet finally understood why they had to keep the ship clean, and so he didn't protest the necessity of the task, though he did debate every detail of the how it was accomplished.

 

"Is the scraper always hard on the hands, Izzy?"

 

"You wouldn't notice it if you had some fucking callouses, you spoiled rat."

 

"Perhaps if I wore gloves..."

 

Izzy had walked away before he had to hear the end of the question, only returning at noon to pull a slightly sunburnt Bonnet back onto the deck.

 

Now, Bonnet laughs as he pushes another stack of pennies over to Ed, who has won enough to arrange them into a small castle, tarnished spires decorating it's either side. 

 

With the red light streaming behind him, he could be a fallen saint, his thirty pieces of silver before his crossed feet.  Ed has always stood at the crossroads of divinity, not a god but certainly more than any other man. He could drive Izzy to his knees, to damnation, to take flesh as if it were bread.

 

That kind of divinity deserved worship, not whatever the fuck it was that Bonnet gave. Some-fucking-how both he and Ed seemed to be under the delusion that Bonnet was an equal. As if a captaincy bought as easily as an indulgence was worth as much as one hard won.

 

Self-improvement be damned, Izzy is one more Bonnet-based heresy from nailing his own ninety-five theses resignation to the mast. Except, no he isn't because if he was, he'd have already done it twenty times this week. He grimaces at the thought, angry at himself, angry at the fact that Edward is doing better now that Bonnet is back. He's drinking tea, making plans, talking with the crew. Izzy would prefer a bit less comradery, but at least the unpredictability of the Kraken was gone, though Izzy will keep sleeping with a knife under his pillow for a small eternity.

 

He's halfway through a good self-flagellation when Jim and Oluwande come up behind him. Jim is nearly silent as they pass across the deck, having long marked which of the boards are loose enough to creak - and really Izzy would set them to fixing that if it wasn't a helpful alarm system in case they were ever boarded at night. Oluwande, though, walks with a quiet surety. He has a confidence that the other men lack. He knows himself, even if he still doesn't know the sea, and it carries right down to his even footfalls, muffled as they are by his ridiculous rubber shoes.

 

"Did you finish sharpening the knives?" Izzy asks without turning around.

 

"Yes." Izzy can feel Jim roll their eyes, even if he can't see it. "And before you ask, we sharpened the swords, too, and checked for damage to the hilts. Haven't been in a fight for a while, so the canons don't need rewicked. Emergency pistols are loaded and the powder stores are dry."

 

"Good. Dismissed."

 

"Actually, Izzy, we were wondering if you would do us a favor," Oluwande adds, surprisingly hesitant.

 

"The answer's no. Wondering over."

 

"I want you to train him." Jim steps up to the rail, looks Izzy in the eye. "We had a close call last time we boarded a ship. You were watching the captains when it happened, but I don't want it to happen again."

 

"Drills are tomorrow at first bell. You know that."

 

"And I know that you will spend the half your time making sure that Black Pete doesn't stab himself in the eye trying to impress Lucius and the other half trying to show Frenchie the difference between a feint and a tango." Jim looks over to Ed and then to Izzy and back again. "Oluwande matters to me," they say through gritted teeth. "I think you know what that means."

 

Izzy doesn't answer that, doesn't know how he could. He just heads below deck with a wave for the two to follow.

 

For the next couple hours, Izzy trains Oluwande, more properly than he has anyone else. They're using wooden swords, which do less damage but hurt more sharply and more immediately. The first time that Izzy gets in a good hit - which is to say, about two minutes into practice - Oluwande lands flat on the ground with a heavy thud.

 

"Ow!" he yells. "Fucking hell, that hurts."

 

"Good reason to learn to avoid it," Izzy says, trying to keep any sympathy from his voice. Years may separate him from the last time he was felled by a wooden sword, but it doesn't erase the pain. At least Boodhari is grown. Izzy had to learn it all as a boy fighting men, an unenviable position to be in, even if it did prepare him for a lifetime of facing threats bigger than himself.

 

Jim watches it all unfold from the corner, only coming to join when Izzy wants them to stand in as a practice dummy so that he can better see Oluwande's footwork from across the way.

 

By the time they've finished, Oluwande has made some improvement, even though an untrained eye might not be able to see it.

 

As he takes a glass of water from Jim and mops the sweat from his brow, Oluwande adds a bit awkwardly. "You're good at this. At keeping us safe. I, um. I maybe shouldn't have tried to throw you overboard."

 

Izzy bristles at the reminder, not deigning to give a real response. Jim mutters something in Spanish, and punches Oluwande in the shoulder.

 

"He means thank you," they say. "And that we'll be back same time next week."

 

"Practice your riposte and you might actually get good enough to live."

 

"Thank you?" Olu says with his head turned in question.

 

Jim just grabs him by the collar and sighs. "Idiot. It's a compliment." They drag Olu back up the stairs to the main deck. "He wants you not to die."

 

 

...

 

 

Izzy groans at the knock at his cabin door. The crew should be asleep by this hour, and none of them would wake Izzy for less than imminent death. They also wouldn't knock quite so calmly at a true emergency so that leaves only two possible culprits: his idiot captains. Izzy sits up, shrugs on his only shirt at an attempt at modesty, and goes to the door. Probably Bonnet, he tells himself. He's seen more of Bonnet than he has of Edward recently, and now the twat probably wants to know if moonlight affects the tensile strength of ropes.

 

"Evening, Izzy," Edward says as the door swings open. "Gonna let me in?"

 

Edward is still dressed, for the most part, with a banyan on over his leather trousers and jacket discarded. Izzy steps aside to let him enter, wishing he was more fully covered. He feels more naked now, his bare legs sticking out from the hem of his shirt, than he has in the times when Ed has seen him fully unclothed.

 

Izzy's cabin doesn't exactly have a surplus of space, so Ed sits on the cot and stretches out his leg, while Izzy uses the nearby table as a stool.

 

"You got a reason for being here this late?"

 

"Just wanted to talk, Iz." Edward leans back against the wall. "Supplies are almost out. We're going to have to decide on that plan soon, that you so dearly want."

 

"Fuck you, Edward."

 

"Come on now, Iz. Don't be that way."

 

"I'll be any way I like! You've kept me a month on this fucking pleasure cruise while you make a decision for us all, and now you're just going to stroll in at god knows what hour to remind me of it? Fuck. You."

 

Ed sighs. "I needed you alone. It's getting harder out on the deck. I think the crew might be starting to like you."

 

"I think they like Bonnet," Izzy gripes. "And he's never more than a fucking stone's throw away, these days. You know, you could have taught him to sail yourself."

 

"More fun this way." Ed taps his outstretched foot against Izzy's knee. "But point is. We're close to a decision. Stede, he, uh. Thinks I should talk to you about it."

 

Izzy crosses his arms and slumps against the porthole wall. "That bad an idea is it?"

 

"I think Blackbeard has to die, Iz." Ed pauses for Izzy to take a sharp inhale of breath. He exhales long and steady through his teeth. "Don't know another way out of this, not with the British at our backs."

 

Izzy reaches for his cravat, looking to run his fingers over the familiar ring he keeps tied there. When his hand catches nothing but air, he drifts his hand down to catch in the collar of his shirt. "'S my fault. Never should've made a deal with the fuckers. Fuckin' rats, every damned one."

 

Ed shrugs, the kind of whole-body movement only he could make look nonchalant. "You made a deal, I took the Act, Stede ran away. We've all done shit to get us here. And now we're fucked."

 

The shock must have dislodged any sense of propriety Izzy once had because he murmurs under his breath. "Fucked hard and I didn't even get to come."

 

Ed freezes, and Izzy gets to drink in the rare look of disbelief on his face before he breaks into laughter. Real, proper laughter too, the kind that starts down in his belly and crackles across the room. "Shit, mate, haven't heard you talk like that in years. Not since..."

 

Izzy shakes his head. "Probably not since Jack was last aboard the Queen Anne. Useless fucker got us both drunk."

 

Ed chuckles once more, lets them sit in comfortable silence for just a moment. "What do you think happens, Iz? After Blackbeard's gone?"

 

"You tell me. You're the one with a plan."

 

Ed hums, pretends to think. He scratches his chin with one hand and traces patterns on the ceiling with his eyes. “Suppose we could start over. Build a new legend. Maybe this time, one with more ghosts.”

 

“We’ve got ghosts enough already for a haunted house. A whole goddamn haunted town!” Izzy taps his four-toed foot against the floor, feels exposed without a sock on. “We’re about to be ghosts ourselves.”

 

“Do you think you always look like you did when you die? When you’re a ghost?” Ed takes a hand to his chin. “I think I kinda want ghost me to have the beard. It was my whole look there.”

 

“I don’t think I can do it again.” Izzy looks down, unwilling to meet Ed’s eyes. “Building a legend. It almost killed me the first time, and... I’m too old, Edward. To be chasing after things like that.”

 

Ed leans forward to put a hand on Izzy’s knee. His palm is warm and softer than Izzy remembers. He and Edward haven’t touched like this in years, not without leather or cloth or metal in the way. “I need you here.” He almost looks shy as he asks. “Will you stay for whatever comes?”

 

Izzy weighs his options: dying here or living anywhere else. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Of course.”

 

Ed pats his knee once before he stands. “Good man, Iz.”

 

 

...

 

 

The Dutch, in Izzy’s estimation, are not a people, but some new form of demon sent specifically to bedevil him. He’d never thought this before the past week, but as he stands on the deck looking at their ship on the horizon, the evidence seems insurmountable.

 

Like most other bedeviling occurrences, the situation had started with Bonnet. Izzy and Ed had been arguing in the captain’s cabin about how to pick a next prize – the end of the month was coming, they needed supplies – when Bonnet walked in with some book in hand.

 

“Here!” he said as he set it down in front of them. “A ship’s log from a Dutch vessel. I picked up at the Republic of Pirates. It should have, somewhere in here, a schedule for the other ships sailing this quarter and a list of the flags they will fly. If they’re coming from East India...”

Ed’s eyes sparked. “They won’t have heard yet about the bounty. Brilliant.”

 

“Yes! I thought just the same!” Bonnet flipped through a few pages. “The only problem is, well. It’s in Dutch. Does anyone on the ship read Dutch?”

 

Izzy groaned. “Barely anyone on this ship reads English. What makes you think they read Dutch?”

 

“Jim reads Spanish!” Bonnet pointed out. “And my ecclesiastical Latin is rather decent.”

 

Izzy sniped back that he’ll keep that in mind if they ever need to rob a nunnery. Bonnet retaliated with some remark about Izzy’s lack of culture and then any remaining pretense of civility was dropped. Edward watched the whole thing play out for a few minutes, twirling a knife between his fingers until he decided that the two were being more annoying than entertaining. “Iz, go survey the men. See if anyone knows Dutch.”

 

Izzy stomped out and onto the deck, ready to return back moments later and rub in Bonnet’s stupid face how right he is. Except that Frenchie stepped up, scratched the back of his neck, and explained somewhat hesitantly that while he doesn’t read Dutch – doesn’t read anything, really – he does speak Dutch.

 

All of which led to the most frustrating experience of Izzy’s long life, in which Bonnet read phonetically the Dutch log to Frenchie, Frenchie tried desperately to translate Bonnet’s gibberish, and Lucius frantically copied down any translation guesses. The schedule that resulted was complete nonsense, even Bonnet seemed to know that. “A stop in Madagascar!” he’d exclaimed. “How unusual!” Sure, Izzy could plot on the map where the ship was supposed to pass, but the translation had to be false. No sailor in his right mind would take a course like this, that lost him the strongest wind and stopped in only middling ports. And then there were the signals - he’d have to be a complete idiot to fly these flags in dangerous waters. Who the fuck even has the material for that many tassels?

 

Ed’s curiosity, however, knows no bounds, and so now here they are, waiting for the fucking mystery ship to arrive. Buttons is posted on the mizzentop, equipped with a spyglass that Izzy hopes he uses whether or not he has “the eyes of a well-bred harpy.”

 

“Ship approaching, Mr. Hands!” Buttons calls two hours into his watch. “Frigate, from the looks of her!”

 

Izzy grips his hand around the hilt of his rapier and scowls. “Colors, Mr. Buttons?”

 

“Dutch! She’s also flying an East India flag with a rather decorative set of fringe. Gold trimmed, too.”

 

“Dismissed, Mr. Buttons.”

 

“Aye, Mr. Hands. All things being equal, me and Liv are going to stay in the tops until the final approach. Have a good view here of my beloved mistress.” Buttons gestures widely to the sea, then starts to tug at the scarf tied around his neck.

 

Izzy can’t be bothered to hear any more of Buttons’ nonsense – certainly doesn’t want to risk another Buttons-related nudity incident – and so he stalks off to find the captain. As long as the bird-loving fucker comes down in time to board the other ship, he can “pine for the embrace of the sea” as long as wants.

 

Izzy doesn’t bother knocking before he throws open the door to the captain’s cabin, a risky move with Bonnet aboard, but less so given that a raid is impending. “Ed,” Izzy sighs, dreading what he’s about to confess. “Buttons just spotted the ship. She’s probably a couple hours out.”

 

Ed stretches across the chaise longue and scratches at his chest. “You have to admit, Iz, the logbook thing was smart. Gave us the easiest ship in the Caribbean. They probably won’t even fight.”

 

“Don’t jinx us, Edward.”

 

“Come on now, Iz. Don’t be superstitious.”

 

Izzy glowers at Ed as he stands, shrugs off his banyan, and reaches for his leathers. Izzy has been a sailor too fucking long not to have picked up on at least a few odd beliefs. He always boarded the ship with his right foot first, always prayed to Saint Elmo. He was kind to black cats and somewhat secretly wished Ed would let them bring one aboard, at least to spare Jim the trouble of pinning rats with a well-placed knife. But one thing he never, ever did was to speak about a raid like it was already over. Fucking invited bad luck, is what it did.

 

Ed whistles as he gets himself ready, as if he’s fucking tempting Izzy to call him out on yet another old wives’ tale. When he’s finally proper – leathers on, face painted – Ed claps Izzy on the back as he passes by and heads out onto the deck. “Alright, let’s get the crew in order.”

 

Bonnet, of course, is already anxiously pacing along the gunwale by the time they arrive. He has his logbook clutched to his chest and is peering through his own spyglass every thirty seconds to check the progress of the frigate.

 

“Right on schedule!” he announces, pointing over to the steadily approaching ship. “Not a waste of money, after all, Ig-Izzy!”

 

Izzy knocks on the wooden capstan, using all of his willpower not to cross himself while he’s at it. “We’ll see about that once this all over.”

 

wait until the angle for approach is right and then get underway. The merchants don’t expect them, which is good, and they aren’t Navy men, which is even better, and so the Revenge can slip alongside before they even know what’s happened. They open the gunports and raise the black, wait for the white flag in return.

 

The surrender never comes. Instead, the merchant ship fires a warning shot, which just misses their figurehead. Ed gives the order for the men to prepare to board, and that’s that. Izzy takes his place behind Ivan and Fang, ready to cross as soon as the gang planks are lowered.

 

Izzy cuts a path for Bonnet to follow, while Ed has a bit of fun with the sailors ambitious enough to fight him. The rest of the crew fans out to secure the deck, most of them swinging their swords more for show than with any kind of skill. Oluwande, Izzy notes out of the corner of his eye, is actually doing pretty well for himself, and Jim flashes Izzy an appreciative grin before they bury their knife up the hilt in some guy’s shoulder.

 

Edward finds the captain before too long and then the ship has surrendered, easy and clean. Or, cleanish. There are still a handful of men laying on the deck bleeding out. Edward’s work, most likely. Izzy picks up his sword, wipes off the blood, and gets to finishing the job. This way is kinder, really, than leaving them to their own fates. Just the run of a blade across a throat, through a heart, and then everything’s over.

 

He's done this dozens of times, over the years, and it’s become boring work, honestly. Step, slash, wipe. Step, slash, wipe.

 

The rhythm of the work is almost calming, which is perhaps why he doesn’t see the blade behind him until it’s already left a gash in his shoulder. The pain beats out the shock for just long enough that Izzy’s hand spasms and he drops his sword onto the deck. He snarls as he turns to see the bastard. He expects to find one of the wounded men, bloody and too strung out on adrenaline to have heard the captain’s orders. Instead, the man he finds is well-dressed, free from any viscera and standing at attention. He must have hidden during the fight, and Izzy groans because of-fucking-course he has once again been ambushed by a goddamn coward.

 

Izzy lunges to the side, hopes to put enough space between himself and this fucking twat that he can reach down and grab a weapon off the deck. He’s already used his pistol and with no time to reload, his best chance is to grab a sword or a knife and wield it in his left hand. It’ll make the fight awkward, sure, but with a bit of luck at least he might fucking live.

 

Apparently, a bit of luck must be more than he has, because between his missing toe and his missing blood – too much, too quickly, the fucker must have hit something – Izzy stumbles a bit, just enough for the man to close in. He gets in a cut to Izzy’s side, close to the ribs, and presses his sword to Izzy’s neck. Izzy blames Ed and his fucking jinx. He spits at the man’s boots and sneers, mumbles a threat about mothers and cock and a rosary.

 

It's a bluff.

 

Izzy knows that his clock is struck. He only wishes that he had left a will, some testament to his time here. Not that he had much in the way of material possessions; he doubts the crew would argue over the sad contents of his cabin. But he would have given away all of his burdens, willed them on the crew like a curse.

 

I, Israel Hands, being of sound (enough) mind and body do leave my last will and testament:

To Ivan and Fang, taking the first morning watch.

To Spriggs, minding the logbook.

To Roach, brewing the morning coffee.

To Buttons, charting the route.

To Wee John, mending the sails.

To Frenchie, fencing the goods.

To the Swede, counting the oranges.

To Oluwande, checking the lifelines in a storm.

To Jimenez, watching the captains’ backs in a fight.

To Stede fucking Bonnet, minding Ed’s happiness.

To Ed...

 

Izzy doubted there was anything left to give, but whatever there was, Ed could have it.

 

Izzy matches the man’s gaze, unwilling to flinch from death. He takes a deep breath in, likely the last one he will ever take, and exhales.

 

But then, he takes another breath in and then another. Because the sword that should be currently embedded in his spinal cord is instead parrying an attack from Stede Bonnet. Bonnet, who had somehow managed to sneak up on them both. Perhaps his lessons with Ed are finally paying off, because he draws the man a few steps away, far enough that Izzy can catch his breath. The opponent is the better swordsman, but not by much. Izzy scrambles to pick up a sword. He needs to join the fray and to end this quickly before Bonnet has the chance to inconveniently die and send Ed into another spiral.

 

Izzy takes the hilt of a cutlass in his hand, slippery with his own blood for once. He stands, pretends that he isn’t swaying, and takes an unsteady step forward.

 

He looks up just in time to see Bonnet raise his sword and put it straight through the man’s eye, sure as threading a needle.

 

The man falls to the deck, sword still buried in his skull.

 

And then Izzy falls to join him, blessedly losing consciousness before he has to hear the sickening thwack of his own body hitting the planks.

 

 

...

 

 

“The arm will be easy to patch up. Always faster to sew someone else. The ribs, though... They might have hit lung.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Means you’re gonna have to hold him down.”

 

...

 

“-‘m sure he’ll be fine. He’s had worse before, hasn’t he?”

 

“Yeah, mate. Of course.”

 

“Well... When?”

 

“What?”

 

“When has he had worse?”

 

“Um. Plenty of times. Just. Trust me, yeah?”

 

...

 

“You better make it, cabron. Olu needs more lessons, and you still owe me a question.”

 

“You should take it as a compliment. It means they don’t want you to die.”

 

“I didn’t say that.”

 

“Yeah, well. You meant it.”

 

...

 

Izzy jerks awake and immediately regrets it. He grips his right side and braces himself against the cot as he takes a few long, shaky breaths. There better be an Eve running around here for all it feels like God must have ripped out a rib.

 

When he feels like he might be able to stand without emptying his guts across the deck, he slowly swings his legs off the cot and braces himself to stand. A quick glance around the room tells him that he’s not in his own cabin, but Bonnet’s library. Which means that Bonnet is probably not far off. Which means that if Izzy has any chance of spending his recovery undisturbed in his own cabin, he needs to leave now.

 

He draws himself to standing with a sharp exhale, running a hand lightly over the bandages across his ribs. Taking a hobbling step forward, he scans the room for his shirt. The crew, at least, had done him the decency of leaving his trousers in place, but he would still prefer to cross the deck fully dressed. He isn’t Buttons, after all. His ring and cravat are here, too, though Izzy doubts he can tie the cravat in place with only one arm. He slips it into his pocket and then places the ring on his left hand.

 

Sighing, shirt nowhere in sight, Izzy admits to himself that it was probably ruined somewhere between the original stabbing and what appears to be surprisingly neat stitchwork. A shame. He liked that shirt, had worn it for years.

 

Instead, a flowing white blouse was draped over the nearby chair. Izzy runs a hand over his eyes and sighs. The shirt must have been Bonnet’s – no one else had much more than the clothes on their backs – but at least it was simple and linen, nothing like the elaborate silk monstrosities they had thrown overboard.

 

Izzy picks it up and, resigned to his fate, slips it on as best he can without lifting his right arm. He doesn’t bother with the collar – isn’t sure how it fastens if he’s honest with himself – but unwilling to waste any more time, shuffles onto the deck, exposed collarbone be damned.

 

He makes it exactly three rather excruciating feet before Bonnet seems to appear out of nowhere with two cups of tea in hand. Izzy curses the fact that he’s traded his heeled shoes for boots. Impractical as they were, at least they served as a reminder of where the bastard was at all times.

 

“Izzy!” Bonnet exclaims. He shifts both cups to one hand so that he can pat Izzy’s back with the other. “Shouldn’t you be resting? Roach said you lost a lot of blood, but thankfully they didn’t hit your lung.”

 

“I’m fine,” Izzy says through gritted teeth, sounding rather distinctly not fine.

 

Bonnet frowns and looks Izzy up and down. His eyes seem to hover on the exposed skin at the top of the shirt, probably wondering how Izzy never learned how to properly tie it closed. Izzy rolls his right shoulder, trying to get the fabric to come closer to closing, and clears his throat. “Assume this is yours. Had to borrow it.”

 

“You should keep it,” Bonnet says in a strained tone. “Rather suits you.” Whatever strange kind of charity on Bonnet’s part, Izzy is too tired to guess at it. Besides, free is free. Bonnet presses one of the cups of tea into Izzy’s hands. “Come on, now. Back to bed.”

 

“I said I’m fine.”

 

“You’re in no state to work!”

 

“I’m not going to work! Just need to get a bit of fresh air. Then, I’ll go lie in my cabin.” Bonnet’s lips press into a thin line until Izzy adds, “Don’t you know the doctor recommends sea air for illness?”

 

“Fine,” Bonnet says. “But somewhere quiet. And I want to come along.”

 

Conceding that his morning – or perhaps midday, given the place of the sun in the sky – is already ruined, Izzy just grips his tea and nods over his shoulder. “This way.”

 

"Well, then," Bonnet says, gesturing broadly to the space in front of them. "Lead on, MacDuff."

 

Izzy rolls his eyes, but steps forward all the same. "That's not the line."

 

He doesn't look back as he ducks through the doorway to the masthead, but he can imagine the way that Bonnet's expression must pinch as he calls back, just a step behind. "I'm sorry?"

 

"That's not the fucking line." Izzy steps up and leans forward on the rail, shifting to favor his uninjured arm. "It's 'lay on, MacDuff,' not 'lead on.'" At Bonnet's continued puzzlement, he adds. "McBeth is baiting him into a fight, not asking for directions."

 

"I didn't know you read Shakespeare."

 

"You didn't ask."

 

Ay, there's the rub. For all that Bonnet doted on his crew and Edward and really anyone else who wasn't English Navy, he never extended that treatment to Izzy. Something caught in the air the very moment they met and sparked into resentment.

 

Izzy, for his part, knew well enough what it was. Bonnet was landed gentry, pulled into this world not by necessity, but by boredom. One look was enough to understand that a ponce with more money than sense wasn't worth dying over. No amount of bedtime stories or marmalade was going to change that.

 

As for Bonnet... Well, the man remained as fucking incomprehensible as he ever was. Sure, Izzy could understand if he had some ill feelings about the once or twice that Izzy's tried to kill him - though honestly he's had plenty of time to get over it; Izzy has gotten over much worse much faster - but Bonnet's distaste for him predated even their duel.  Izzy doesn't know why and he can't really be arsed to figure it out.

 

The world, as far as he was concerned, centers around the following truths:

 

Izzy serves Ed.

 

Ed adores Bonnet.

 

Therefore, Izzy will protect Bonnet to the extent he can without risking Ed.

 

That Izzy and Bonnet hate each other is, quite frankly, irrelevant, and so Izzy has simply ignored it to the extent possible.

 

Except he can't anymore because Stede fucking Bonnet just saved his life for seemingly no good reason. Killed for him, something no one has ever done for Izzy, not Ed and certainly none of the mangey lot they've called a crew over the years.

 

And so Bonnet's regard for Izzy has suddenly become relevant and, given the man's current unwavering proximity, unavoidable.

 

His confusion must be clear on his face because Bonnet shifts ever so slightly closer and says, in that voice reserved for questions to which he already knows the answer, "Something on your mind, Israel?"

 

"Fuck off, Bonnet." The bite behind the words is missing, though, and after a moment of silence, despite his better judgement, Izzy hears himself ask. "Why did you save me?"

 

Bonnet scrunches up his face. "Why wouldn't I save you?"

 

"Are you fucking stupid on purpose? Because you hate me."

 

"I don't hate you! I've never hated you." Izzy scoffs and so Bonnet amends. "Well, perhaps a bit at the beginning. But I haven't hated you for months."

 

"Even if you don't hate me, that's not much of a reason to kill a man."

 

"It's not like I had much time to think about it!" He's almost worked up to the point that Izzy can comprehend him again. Anger, at least, is an emotion he can understand. Keep this up for a bit more and one of them (hopefully Bonnet) will storm off, leaving the other (hopefully Izzy) to contemplate the sea and his miserable lot in life alone. But then Bonnet has to go and ruin it all by taking a deep breath in and calming himself. "I suppose there are a lot of reasons to, well, um to..."

 

"To kill someone."

 

"To save you." Bonnet loosens his collar, aiming for nonchalance but missing by several nautical miles. "There are plenty of reasons to save you. Ed adores you, for one. And as the captain, it's my duty to look out for the crew." Bonnet lifts his hand, hesitates, and then tentatively places it on Izzy's shoulder. Izzy frowns, but lets it stay there, thankful at least that Bonnet picked his good arm. "I would miss you, Izzy."

 

"There are plenty of first mates out there. Especially ones willing to work for Blackbeard."

 

"Well, I'd miss you as first mate, for certain. No one else knows how to keep a tight ship like you do. But I'd miss more than that. The smell of your morning coffee. The sound of your boots on the deck. The way you always seem to beat me at poker." Bonnet chuckles to himself, as if counting cards was some sort of goddamn mystery. "And we haven't even gotten to discuss Shakespeare yet!"

 

"If this is some game..."

 

"No, no game. Just growing rather fond of you, is all."

 

Bonnet stays there for another minute, letting the quiet crash of the waves roll over them as they watch the clouds float by. He's almost tolerable like this, when he has finally shut up for once in his fucking life. It's... nice, almost. To have someone else around.

 

"Right." Bonnet knocks twice against the railing. "Guess I'll be going then. Leave you to your contemplation."

 

"You've gotten better." Izzy hears Bonnet fumble at the threshold.

 

"What was that?"

 

"At being a pirate. You've gotten better. Maybe in a few..." Decades? Centuries? Millennia? "Years, you might even be competent."

 

"Thank you. I really mean it."

 

"Don't mention it. I mean that, too, Bonnet. Not a fucking word to the crew."

 

Bonnet pauses, then chuckles. "Of course."

 

He’s back not fifteen minutes later, this time with a peeled orange in hand. “But Izzy you will go rest, won’t you? Buttons was planning to use this space for his ritual offering to the mermaids and then Frenchie said something about a painting class. Of course, you could attend if you really wanted to but...”

 

Izzy doesn’t say a word, but he steals Bonnet’s orange as he passes.

 

 

...

 

 

The first day he returns to work – just for the morning, Bonnet, would you calm down – Izzy wakes to find a new, black shirt folded at the foot of his cot. It’s silk, dyed a deeper shade than any he’s seen. Even his Sunday best had always been more grey than black by the time he got his hands on them. The buttons are shiny, freshly polished, and the slightest hint of green embroidery trails across the seams. When he looks closely, Izzy can see that the pattern of snakes, crawling across the hem and up the sleeves.

 

He holds the new shirt in his hands. It’s certainly his style. Simple buttons, high neck, a glorious change of pace from the borrowed shirt he’s been wearing. It also, tragically, might as well have “Gift of Stede Bonnet” stitched into the collar. He sulks but puts in one arm and then the other.

 

Huh.

 

The sleeves are the right length, a minor miracle in and of itself. When he goes to close the buttons, they fit as well, leaving room enough in the shoulders to maneuver. It suits, as if tailored to him, and Izzy isn’t sure what to do with that fact.

 

Izzy adds his cravat, tying the ring in place. He wants to shrug on his vest, to complete his typical ensemble, but apparently it was ruined in the raid. Frenchie and Wee John are “looking into it” according to Bonnet, the exact kind of euphemism Izzy has come to expect will yield nothing but disappointment.

 

Izzy smooths his shirt one last time, ensuring that it’s tucked cleanly into his trousers, and shrugs on his boots before he steps onto the deck. The crew, at least, have gained enough sense that they don’t remark on his presence beyond a silent nod from Jimenez.

 

Bonnet has not apparently learned because the moment he steps on the deck, he fawns to Izzy’s side and runs a hand appreciatively down his sleeve.

 

“Looking rather smart this morning.”

 

“It fits.”

 

“I had Wee John take in the sleeves, a bit. I had to guess your measurements, of course...”

 

Izzy snatches the coffee Bonnet has tucked against his chest and takes a sip. It’s hot, black, clearly about to be offered to Izzy anyway. “If you’re looking for a thank you, you’re going to be disappointed.”

 

Bonnet bristles, awkwardly moving his hands about now that he doesn’t have the coffee to distract him. “Seeing the crew in decent clothing is reward enough. Wouldn’t want anyone mistaking us for paupers. We have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

 

Izzy ignores him to go check on the mizzenmast. He inspects the rigging in intimate detail until Bonnet finally stops his monologue and fucks off to go annoy Edward instead.

 

Izzy expects that to be the last of it. Bonnet has, by any technical definition, learned what he set out to learn from Izzy. He even saved his life, making them more or less even as far as life debt was concerned.

 

So why Bonnet will feel obligated to leave Izzy a bottle of fine brandy the next week is beyond him. As is why a copy of Twelfth Night appears on his nightstand. Perhaps it’s the vest, returned with embroidery enough to disguise the mending, that finally makes him accept Bonnet’s offer of dinner in the captain’s cabin. At least Ed will be there, and Bonnet’s presence really isn’t enough a deterrent these days to keep Izzy from his captain.

 

He comes to the captains’ cabin at the end of his shift. He’s working full hours again, has been ever since his right arm started to be functional, even if it leaves him strung out and about to fall asleep in his evening meal. Bonnet greets him at the door and ushers him into a table with three plates, flanked by library chairs. Shit. There’s no silver wear out, but if Izzy has to learn a melon spoon from a lobster fork, he’s going to murder Bonnet with whichever of the two is sharper.

 

Thankfully for the evening, Roach serves fish and chips, no forks required. “Fresh caught,” he says with a flourish, and he even deigns to put the food on Izzy’s plate instead of lobbing it as his person. Apparently, Ed had convinced Buttons to teach the crew to fish, a quick gamble to keep them from asking about why very little pirating has been happening as of late. Izzy complains about the risk of a grease fire in the galley, even if he is secretly pleased with the meal and not so secretly stealing spare chips from Bonnet’s plate whenever he goes too doe eyed over Ed.

 

They drink wine and talk well into the evening. Mainly they stick to ship’s business, but Ed starts spinning a yarn he knows will rile Izzy, some half-remembered bollocks about Izzy losing a dare to Spanish Jackie. “That’s why he hates that bar, you know?”

 

Izzy kicks Ed under the table. “That’s not why,” he grouches, and starts in on his own version of the tale. Bonnet sits enraptured, fascinated to hear anything about Ed before they met. Unfortunately for Ed, Izzy knows just about every story that Ed pretends to have forgotten from their youth. Most of them have to do with sailing and stores and mundane things, but a few make for good enough conversation. There’s the time that Calico Jack got his dick stuck in a bottle, and the fuckery that caught their own ship on fire.

 

The candles are burning low by the time that Ed rubs at his knee and announces he is planning to “retire for the evening,” an expression he only could have picked up from one place. Izzy stands to leave, but Bonnet grabs him by the wrist and tugs him back down.

 

“I was hoping you could stay for a moment.”

 

“And I was hoping to leave, Bonnet.”

 

“I could make it an order. I am a captain, after all.”

 

Izzy slowly lowers himself back down into his chair. To be contrary, he kicks up one boot onto Ed’s now vacant seat and takes a bit of satisfaction in the frown Bonnet flashes his way.

 

Bonnet takes a final sip of his brandy. “What do you think Ed would be, if he wasn’t a pirate?”

 

“Dead, most likely,” Izzy shrugs. “Or maybe in debtor’s prison.”

 

“No, not like that. I mean... What else would he be, if he had the choice?”

 

“No one has a choice, so there’s no point thinking about it.”

 

Bonnet kicks off his boot and puts his foot on the spare seat along with Izzy’s. He tries to push Izzy off the upholstery but mainly succeeds in sort of nudging him. “Indulge me, and I’ll let you go get your sleep.”

 

Izzy crosses his arms. Ed certainly could pick up any kind of skill, but something about him as a blacksmith or a baker or any of the other myriad jobs Izzy had watched growing up feels hollow. Ed as a priest has a certain appeal to it, if only because he would hate the job and love the vestments. “He would have made a good king,” he says.

 

“That doesn’t help,” Bonnet mutters just loud enough for Izzy to hear. In a clearer voice he asks, “Would that make you the loyal knight, then, Lancelot?”

 

 “And you the princess.”

 

Bonnet gasps. “I should at least be the queen!”

 

“Oh you’re certainly an old queen, Guinevere.”

 

Bonnet kicks him in the shin for that one, and then pours them each a final glass of brandy. Izzy takes his like a shot and stands, feeling a twinge at his side when he does where the stitches haven’t yet come out. “So am I free to leave?”

 

“Dismissed,” Bonnet yawns, stretching his arms overhead and shaking his neck loose. “Even though you were no help. And poor company.”

 

“All the more reason to dismiss me.”

 

Bonnet waves his hand around as he rises, peeling off his jacket as he does. Izzy slips back out onto the deck with a grin he blames on too much wine.

 

Thankfully, the rest of the crew should be asleep at this hour. They finally cleared enough space for everyone to hang hammocks across the gundeck, and so there was no one left overnight on the top deck. A worthy investment, after the last time they all had to listen to Lucius bitch when a midnight rainstorm caught them by surprise.

 

Izzy could hear the prat now, if he spotted Izzy slinking back to his own cabin at this hour. He doesn’t think that swabbing the deck for a year would be enough to keep that little piece of gossip from getting around.

 

He’s almost to his cabin when he hears a plank creek behind him. He turns, hand already on his rapier when he spots Jimenez across the way. Fuck. If they’ve been heard, it’s because they want to be.

 

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Izzy lulls.

 

“I could say the same for you.” Jim leans on the fo’c’sle wall.

 

“What do you want, Jimenez?”

 

Jim shrugs. “Thought I might cash in my question.”

 

“Get it over with.”

 

“What’s between you and the captain?”

 

“The fuck kind of question is that? Edward’s the captain. I’m his first mate. That’s that.”

 

Jim rubs a hand to their temple. “I mean Stede, idiot. You haven’t been at each other’s throats since you got stabbed. So what? You guys fucking now?”

 

Izzy stammers. Color rises in his cheeks as he tries to find his words before shouting, “I should have you keelhauled for that!”

 

“So is that is a yes? Remember, you owe me.”

 

“No, you twat! No one’s fucking.”

 

“Well, the captains are fucking. And Lucius is definitely fucking.”

 

“Is everyone on this ship moron? No, Jimenez. Nothing untoward is happening between me and Stede fucking Bonnet.”

 

“Huh.” Jim tosses a knife in the air, then catches it behind their back. “Well, do you want it to?”

 

“You already used your question. Go to bed before I change my mind about the keelhauling.”

 

Jimenez shoots Izzy a look, but Izzy is already at his cabin door. “You don’t set my bedtime, Izzy!” They call after him as he slams the door shut behind him, hard enough to shake the nightstand.

 

He undresses quickly, throwing his clothes onto the ground in a pile. Then he clenches his fist and goes to pick them up before they can wrinkle. He doesn’t want to look anything less presentable for the morning rounds. Having a rumpled shirt and being last seen sneaking from the captains’ cabin seems like a bad place to start.

 

He lies down, blows at the candle beside him, and closes his eyes to get what little sleep he can before day breaks.

 

If he has trouble getting that sleep, it certainly, definitely is not because he is thinking about fucking Stede fucking Bonnet.

 

 

...

 

 

Izzy’s absolutely foolproof plan to avoid his captains – at least until he can stop thinking about what Jimenez had said the night before – is ruined when Ed comes knocking at his door before the sun has even risen.

 

“Iz,” Ed calls. “Got news. Need you up.”

 

“Can’t it wait, Edward?” Izzy whines into his pillow.

 

“Nope!” Edward is far too cheerful for the hour. “My cabin. Five minutes. Hurry up, mate!”

 

Izzy grumbles, but rises, dresses, and shuffles back to the captains’ cabin. He doesn’t even stop by the galley to make a pot of coffee, and he hopes that Edward knows that’s just reduced the chance he stays awake through this meeting by half.

 

Bonnet, at least, seems to share Izzy’s opinion of the hour, if the scowl on his face is anything to go by. He grunts in acknowledgement of Izzy’s presence and then offers up a cup of tea, apparently made over his own hearth and not quite strong enough for Izzy’s taste. He takes it, though, and complains the whole time he drinks it.

 

“We did it, Iz!” Edward says, slamming one hand down on the table and then scrambling across the room to go pick up one of the many books lining the walls. “We have a plan.”

 

“To kill Blackbeard?”

 

“No,” Bonnet says. He blows on his tea to cool it down. “Not quite.”

 

“So you’ve decided to, what? Keep raiding ships? Or are you retiring?”

 

“Both!” Edward wiggles his eyebrows. He shimmies his hips, as if gearing up for some dramatic reveal.

 

“Could the theatrics wait until I’m awake, dear?” Bonnet asks.

 

Edward slumps dramatically to the side as if wounded. “Fine.” He perks back up. “You know that logbook that Stede found in Dutch? Weird schedule, stop in Madagascar?”

 

“Yes?” Izzy raises an eyebrow.

 

“Well, we took the logbook from the second Dutch ship, and it had the same stop, same complaints about the port. Begs the question – why is every ship from here to India stopping in a shitty port?”

 

“I don’t know, Edward. Because it’s the only one by the route?”

 

“Maybe, but look.” Ed tosses Izzy the book. Izzy catches it and flips through a few pages before Bonnet grows impatient, takes it from his hands, and finds the page for him.

 

“Here,” Bonnet points. “They were trading. Wine, spices, silks. All to a Mr. H.A. Paid in Moghul gold.”

 

Izzy narrows his eyes. “Ed, you can’t think...”

 

“We never found what happened to him, Iz! Think about it, if Avery and his gold are starting up a new port, far away from English eyes –“

 

“A hunch is not enough, Edward! Our lives are on the line!”

 

“You’re right.” Edward puts up his hands in surrender. “You’re right. So I sent a bird out asking for a spy. I called you in because Liv just came back with the response.” Ed puts his hand on Izzy’s shoulder. “He’s there. And he’s building something. But he’s gonna need more men, more supplies. From the logs, he’s gonna need someone to set up a tavern, be a fence. We could do it! Avery would never turn us over, man. The English want him even more than me.”

 

“So you want us to, what? Play at being Spanish Jackie? Go become tavern boys? Are you going to give up all this to play house in some daydream bed and breakfast?”

 

“No, no. Look. We’ll still take ships. Might even still come back here, from time to time. Stede’s got family, and so does Jim. This way we can have it all. A place on land and at sea. We can choose not to choose.”

 

“Ed, I don’t –“

 

“Give us the room?” Ed asks to Bonnet.

 

Bonnet hesitates. He looks over at Izzy, as if his approval matters. But Izzy nods all the same and Bonnet ties his dressing gown tight as he shuffles out onto the deck.

 

Ed sits down in the chair next to Izzy. “Iz, it’s like... I always thought we were like seagulls, you know?” Edward pauses, as if waiting for Izzy to somehow divine whatever the fuck that means.

 

“No, I don’t fucking know how we are like seagulls.”

 

“They’re like...” Ed mimes a bird with his hands. “They always nest in the same place, with the same bird. They eat the same fish, fly the same way. They never try anything new. I guess I thought that was us. I thought that if we tried, maybe we would just die, or like... stop being birds? But now, I think that we’re sparrows. I was talking to Buttons – you should try it; he really knows a lot about birds – and there’s one kind that lives on the beaches. They can go anywhere, Iz. They meet new birds, build new nests. I think that’s the way to be.”

 

Izzy grips his knee beneath the table hard enough to bruise. “If this is your way of telling me you want me to leave, I’d rather you tell me directly.” He has Bonnet to kill for him now, and a crew decent enough not to die. When he thinks about it, Izzy isn’t really certain he has a purpose anymore. Ed would be within rights to ask him to leave.

 

Edward looks taken aback. “No, no! I want us to build a new nest, Iz. All of us.” Ed looks up at the ceiling, circles around with one hand, thinking. “Stede, he’s more of a sparrow than any of us. Maybe it would be good to him to have other birds. In the nest, that is. We could make a nest big enough for all of us.”

 

Izzy latches onto the one thing in all of this that seems to make any sense. “So you want me to come with you to Madagascar?”

 

“Yes,” Ed pats him on the back. “I want you and Stede both to come.”

 

Izzy lets go of the breath he’s been holding. This is easy, simple. Ed wants something that Izzy can give. “Fine, Ed. I’ll come along. Whatever you want.”

 

“I think you’re going to be happy, Iz. If you let yourself be.” Ed stands and stretches his arms above his head. He raps his hand twice on the coffee table. “Glad we had this talk. Now, it’s time to go make the announcement to the crew!”

 

Ed saunters out onto the deck nearly skipping and Izzy shoves his head into his hands, wondering if it’s worth asking Buttons what he knows about sparrows.

 

 

...

 

 

The next few weeks are a blur of raiding merchants, packing supplies, and readying the ship. The journey will be longer than any they’ve made as a crew – longer than any Izzy has made in recent memory – and he hurries about the ship checking inventory with an almost fanatic zeal. He wants to careen the ship, and he follows Ed around for a week begging him to do it. But the men have never done it before and its risky for greenhands, so Ed instead strikes a compromise by letting Izzy re-rig the mizzen and main where they’ve started to fray. “We’ll be just as fast, that way. Can use full canvas with this mast so long as the ropes will hold.” Izzy stomps off, grumbling about fucking Brazilian imports, but he admits when the works is finished that they should be able to outrun anything short of a man of war.

 

Their last stop before they leave is St. Augustine. Technically they’ve stopped to pick up a final supply of oranges, but they all know their real reason is to let Jim say goodbye to their nana, at least for the time being. The crew all followed them to shore for some last chance at leave and the promise of cake. None of them knew about the bounty before they heard Ed’s solution, and so they don’t have the same drumming anxiety that haunts Izzy and, to a lesser extent, the captains.

 

Ed had offered to let Izzy out at port with the others, but he quickly declined. Izzy had spent more time on these waters than he ever had on land. He wants one last night with them before they part.

 

He’s on his second hour of watching the waves crash to shore when Bonnet slides up beside him along the rail, a mug of rum in hand. They stand silently for a moment and watch the sea, eyes drifting up from time to time to watch the stars overhead. To Izzy, they look like a compass, just another tool. Does Bonnet see any use in them? Or just beauty?

 

Bonnet is the first to break the silence, because of course he is. “Do you think the sky will stay the same? In Madagascar?”

 

“No,” Izzy traces Orion’s belt with his eyes. “It shifts there, south of the equator. Suppose you’ve never crossed it, though.”

 

“And you have?”

 

“Once. But that was a long time ago.” Izzy chuckles at the memory. “Joined King Neptune’s court. Got my first tattoo, after that.”

 

“Was it back when you and Ed-“

 

“Navy. Before Ed. Like I said, it was a long time.”

 

Bonnet stops looking at the sky to watch Izzy. “I forget, sometimes. That you have a before Ed, and he has a before you. Seems like you’ve always been together.”

 

“I remember a time before you,” Izzy snipes. But then he looks at Bonnet, quiet for once and not half the nuisance he used to be. He braces himself for what he’s about to say. “But you’re good for him.”

 

Bonnet knocks their shoulders together. “I’m glad you’re coming with us, Izzy. Trying this, for him.”

 

“Suppose we’d both try a lot of things for him.”

 

Bonnet places a hand on Izzy’s where it sits along the rail. Slowly, as if expecting Izzy to run, he traces it up along Izzy’s arm to his shoulder, all the way to the collar of his shirt. Izzy has come to tolerate a fair amount of Bonnet’s need for physical contact over the past months, but this seems a bit far. He puts his hand on Bonnet’s arm, ready to push it away, but then Bonnet takes a step closer and before Izzy can really understand what’s happening, Bonnet’s lips are on his.

 

Izzy freezes. He can feel the light press of a tongue tracing his lips, of teeth nipping. His first traitorous thought is that Bonnet is actually a surprisingly good kisser. At least all of his hours squirreled away with Edward had taught him something. But then reality hits him again, and Izzy steps away, breaking the contact with a quick shove.

 

He looks at those lips, pink and flush and so recently on his own. They're downturned, frowning a bit, crinkled around the edges. Nervous. And Bonnet fucking should be. He has Ed waiting for him in their cabin and yet here he is, touching Izzy so gently as if a betrayal could feel like a caress.

 

Izzy hates him. Hates that he could cloak cruelty in kindness, hates that he has put Izzy in this position. Because of course he will say no. Give up this thing he just realized he desires to keep Edward happy. What is another sacrifice at Ed's altar?

 

Bonnet doesn't see Izzy's left hook come for him until it has already connected with his lip, whipping back his head and leaving him staggering across the deck. He has no instinct for these things, and so he doesn't brace himself for a next punch nor line himself for his own attack. Izzy shakes his hand loose, regret already clawing at his thoughts.

 

Not for hitting Bonnet. No, if anything, he should have hit him harder. Maybe kicked him while he was down.

 

But regret for using his ungloved hand, for letting skin touch skin in what feels like a return of that kiss.

 

"What the fuck was that?" Bonnet asks. He's cradling his own face, looking at the blood in his hand with disbelief. Probably never had a split lip before. Maybe never even tasted his own blood before.

 

"A warning," Izzy spits. "And one you don't deserve. You broke him when you left. Now that you have him back, what? You want to see if you can do worse? Get out of my sight before I gut you."

 

Bonnet's face crumples. His hand drops to his side, casting aside a scarlet arc. "Oh, Izzy."

 

Izzy could run him through for that. He would pin him to the mast once again, and this time with no hope of coming unstuck. "This isn't the time for your fucking pity."

 

His hand is already on the hilt of his sword, but Bonnet moves forward anyway, his red stained fingers grasping desperately. He takes a slow step, and then another, until he is close enough to wrap his hand Izzy's wrist, press the sticky sweet blood into the gap between sleeve cuff and glove.

 

"Please," he says. "Let me show you."

 

Izzy doesn't say yes, but he doesn't say no, and so Bonnet guides him across the deck, never moving his hand from its place on Izzy's wrist. He doesn't look back either, the fool, and Izzy knows that he could just do it now. Stab him in the back before he even knew what happened. It would be a kind death, in that way, over before it even began.

 

Izzy expects to be led into some closet, or perhaps even his own room. Bonnet could plead his case in private that way, maintain the little dignity that he has left.

 

He doesn't expect to be taken to the captain's cabin, where Ed is spread out across the chaise in a linen robe and little else.

 

"Back so soon?" he asks without looking up.

 

"Bit of a complication," Bonnet replies.

 

"Complication?" Ed perks up. "Really not that complicated to - shit, man, are you bleeding?"

 

Bonnet waves him off. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at the wound.

 

"Damn, Iz. I told Stede you don't bite."

 

Izzy's eyes dart between the two of them, his brow pinched and hand wrapped around the handle of his rapier. He grinds his teeth to keep from shouting, needs the words to form in his mind before he can.

 

"You said he understood," Bonnet whispers to Edward.

 

"Thought he did!" Ed shrugs, stands to join Bonnet. "I explained it to him."

 

"What did you say?"

 

"Same thing we’d said! You know? About the birds."

 

“I thought you were going to ask Lucius about that.”

 

“He still won’t talk to me, but I explained it to Buttons and he said it made perfect sense!”

 

“Very clearly, Izzy would disagree!”

 

“Does someone want to explain what the fuck is going on around here?” Izzy is yelling now, but at least there’s no one else on the ship to hear him.

 

Bonnet steps forward, places himself between Ed and Izzy. He takes a hand to the back of his own neck as he turns to Ed. “I, um, went to go talk to Izzy, like we discussed and then... The moment felt right, so I, uh...” Bonnet flushes red enough to match his lip.

 

The two exchange a glance that Izzy can’t read, and then Ed’s staring over at him with bedroom eyes.

 

"Show me, then," Ed purrs. "I want to see."

 

Bonnet takes a step closer. “We were talking about being open to new things and so I put my hand out, like this. And he let it rest there, all the way up at his neck.” Bonnet traces his way back up Izzy’s arm. “So then, um.”

 

Bonnet leans down to kiss Izzy again. He closes his eyes as he does, gentle as ever, but Izzy is still staring stock ahead. When Edward hasn’t already drug him away by the collar, he slowly drifts his gaze over to his captain.

 

The lust in Ed’s eyes has only deepened, and a predatory smile curls across his face. Izzy may not understand this, may not understand why or how this is happening, but he knows permission from his captain. He deepens the kiss, reaching up on his toes to press against Bonnet's lips and then dragging him by the collar back down.

 

He traces Bonnet's lip with his tongue, tastes where iron still spills from the wound. He nips at that spot, feels Bonnet wince and blood come forth. He laps at the offering, swallows the unholy eucharist.

 

They break apart enough to breathe, eyes still nearly closed and so close that Izzy feels Bonnet's breath on his cheek.

 

"And this is when he punched me," Bonnet says with enough indignity to remind Izzy why he just might hate the man.

 

Izzy looks to Ed. "Already have him. Shouldn't need more than that."

 

Ed steps forward, curls a possessive hand around the nape of Izzy's neck. "And what if we want more?"

 

"You should have it."

 

"And what do you want?" Edward lets his hand drift forward to Izzy’s crotch, smiles as Izzy twitches his hips at the contact.

 

"More."

 

Bonnet, still waiting at Izzy’s side, presses a kiss to his neck. “Good boy.”

 

The captains each flank Izzy as they shepherd him over to the bed in the far corner of the room. It’s too small for three people, especially three grown men, and so Edward lays down first. He props his back against the headboard and pulls Izzy’s back to his chest. Bonnet climbs over them both to straddle Izzy’s hips, hands working to undo the buttons of his shirt.

 

“Why?” Izzy asks. “Why me?”

 

“Mmm...” Bonnet hums. He licks the red stain again growing on his lip. “Against our better judgment, we’ve grown rather fond of you.”

 

Shirt largely undone, Bonnet moves his hand to Izzy’s cravat and asks for silent permission before he starts to untangle the knot there.

 

“Don’t need me,” Izzy pants.

 

“Did you ever think we want you?” Ed asks. He takes a hand down Izzy’s now-bare chest, scratching his nails across one pec.

 

Bonnet starts to untie Izzy’s breaches, loosening the laces with a practiced familiarity. Maybe he did this for his wife. Izzy can imagine those hands on corset strings, a thought that leads places he isn’t sure he can handle at the moment.

 

His boots have to come off next, before Bonnet can shuck off his breaches and underthings in one somewhat awkward move, telling Izzy to lift his hips and getting frustrated by the stiffness of the leather. The fact that he is now fully naked – and the only one unclothed in the room – doesn’t hit Izzy until it’s already happened. He was too focused on trying not to throttle Bonnet for the way he got his leathers caught around his ankles. He curls his arms around himself, trying for some kind of cover and not really succeeding. He’s never really done this before. Sex, yes, of course, but that was more often than not a quick exchange, exposing only as much as was necessary to get the job done. Not this, where Izzy is stretched out and put on display.

 

“Come on, now, Iz,” Ed purrs. “Let him see.” He grabs each of Izzy’s wrists and pulls them above his head. Izzy squirms a bit. He could fight this, if he really wanted. He could kick Bonnet and slip his wrist from Ed’s too loose grasp.

 

Instead, he lets Bonnet wrap his pre-slicked hand around his dick, testing the length of it. Bonnet moves slowly, as if only for his own amusement. Leave it to the Gentleman Pirate to make giving a handjob selfish. But then he digs into Izzy’s thigh with his other hand as he casually takes his grip away from Izzy’s cock. Izzy huffs at the lack of contact and looks down to see Bonnet fiddle with some jar.

 

“Would you just-“ Izzy starts. He doesn’t finish the thought, because then Bonnet’s hand is between his cheeks, working him open. Bonnet takes his time, teasing in his movements, and grinning smugly to himself when Izzy twitches in response.

 

“Get on with it.” Izzy tries for a command. He hates the way his own voice sounds pleading.

 

Ed chuckles. “Patience.”

 

“What do you want?” Bonnet asks, as if he doesn’t fucking know. “Use your words.”

 

Izzy grits his teeth. “Just do it.”

 

“Do what?” Bonnet adds another finger. “You can have whatever you want, if you ask.”

 

Ed shifts his hold to trace Izzy’s palm with his thumb, letting both their hands drift down to Izzy’s sides. “Cheeky bastard, isn’t he Iz?”

 

Izzy grimaces. “Fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Bonnet withdraws to step out of his trousers, and Izzy whines at his absence. He leaves his shirt on, which Izzy almost wants to remedy, but taking it off would just further delay the man. He’s already folding his fucking clothes as it is, and so Izzy lets it stay, lets the soft material pool at his hips as Bonnet lines himself up.

 

He enters more confidently than Izzy would expect, slowly rocking his hips. Izzy pushes against him in response, urging him faster. He wraps his feet behind Bonnet, digging his ankles into the man’s back to try and set the pace. “Words, Izzy,” Bonnet says, but his voice catches, like he’s just as frustrated by the situation.

 

“Faster.”

 

“And what’s the magic word?”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

Bonnet slows his rhythm even further. “Seems to me things are the other way ‘round.”

 

Ed must be entertained by this fuckery, if his laugh-skipping breath on the back of Izzy’s neck is any indication.

 

“Please.” At least this time, the frustration beats out the want in his tone.

 

Bonnet obliges. He finally fucks Izzy as if he means it, deep and hard, enough to make Izzy’s toes curl into the sheets. He faulters only for a moment to adjust the angle, and Izzy supposes that he can forgive him because it appears that Ed taught him how to find the prostate. Something which almost makes up for their fucking on the deck.

 

Izzy doesn’t know when Ed stopped holding down his wrists, but now one hand is running through Izzy’s hair. “So good,” he whispers. And that’s it. Izzy is finishing embarrassingly early, staining the hem of Bonnet’s shirt and leaving a mess across his own stomach.

 

At least Bonnet doesn’t last much longer, finishing a moment later and then flopping onto Izzy, crushing him against Ed’s chest. Izzy turns as best he can to bury his face in Ed’s side. He doesn’t think he can look at either of them right now. Whatever this is, it’s too new. Too fragile.

 

That is until he feels Ed’s erection push into his hip. Ed has one hand playing at the waistband of his sleepwear, but Izzy bats it away. “Let me,” he says, voice hoarse.

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

But he wants to. And isn’t that a new thing, to want so unashamedly. Izzy doesn’t trust it, but he thinks he understands this. He understands it as he pushes Bonnet off his back and slips down onto the floor beside Ed. He understands the hard wood on his knees, and he understands looking up at his captain through tear-stained eyelashes. He doesn’t pause to think about where those tears came from, knows that it would ruin his nerve.

 

He takes Ed in his mouth, lets his fingers grasp at Izzy’s hair and set the pace. It’s easier like this, not having to talk, not having to want. He lets himself drift into it for a bit, a welcome reprieve from his still roiling post-coital revelation. He’s almost disappointed when Ed comes, knowing that this little bliss has to end.

 

When Izzy stands, he plans to leave back to his cabin and have his crisis alone, but he doesn’t even put his breaches back on before Bonnet trails his hand across Izzy’s wrist. “Stay,” he says, sleepy and soft.

 

And so Izzy does. He climbs back into the bed, lets Ed wedge him in between the two bodies already there.

 

He’s almost asleep when Ed throws a leg over Izzy’s hip and murmurs. “At least you got to come.”

 

“What?”

 

“Before, what you said about getting fucked hard. At least this time you got to come.”

 

Izzy shoves Ed and turns over to face Bonnet. When Ed hits the planks below, he makes a comforting thunk.

 

 

...

 

 

Izzy wakes to the smell of something burning. The first time this happened, almost a year ago now, he had jolted out of bed and almost run into the wall, expecting the door to be where it always was in his cabin. Smoke was curling up from underneath the door, and everything was unnaturally still, which could only mean that they are somehow both on fire and becalmed.

 

Now, he knows that Ed must be conducting another one of his experiments in the kitchen. They took another ship last week, this one loaded not just with Indian spices, but with Chinese crates none of them could translate. Edward had claimed everything edible for his quest to “shake up” the menu at Blackbeard’s Bar and Grill and was now working with Roach on new recipes. “Think of it, Iz. We could like, fuse cuisines.” The gift shop, at least, was on hold for the moment, after Izzy rather vigorously protested that plastering the name and location of their black-market trading port onto shirts and postcards was perhaps a poor decision.

 

Izzy rolls out of bed and shrugs on a robe. His foot is acting up again, and so he takes his cane from where it is propped against the nightstand. Might as well go nab a cup of coffee before Roach drinks it all. Besides, someone should make sure that Edward doesn’t more than singe the kitchen.

 

He shuffles down to the restaurant. The fire is out by the time he gets there, only a minor smoldering from the stove evidence of anything out of the usual. He grabs his mug – an old tin thing he took from the Revenge - and a kiss from Ed as he passes him hunched over the counter with Frenchie and Roach, debating the various next steps in their plan.

 

Bonnet is where he always is these mornings, tucked into the corner nook of the seating area, a week’s old newspaper spread across the table. It’s the most recent they can get here, and despite Avery’s protests that shipments will pick up any day, Izzy doubts they’ll see any change. Things are slow here, steady. They’re all adjusting.

 

Bonnet folds away his paper when he sees Izzy, lets him slide into the space next to him and steal an orange from his plate. He’s getting better at this, living on land, but Izzy still lets his eyes drift over to the window to look out and see the Revenge anchored in the harbor.

 

Bonnet follows Izzy’s gaze, out to the harbor and beyond to the sea. “I heard this morning that Read and crew may be passing through. They’re on their way to St. Augustine.” He plays with the ring on his hand, turning it over, and avoiding any eye contact. “Jim and Olu might join the crew for a visit. I would understand if you, um, would prefer...”

 

Izzy shakes his head. Through the open door, he can hear Ed laughing as he argues over what to do with ten crates of lychees. Jim and Oluwande are sparring on the lawn, sounds of wooden swords clashing, and Ivan is mending ropes by the corner. Izzy will work the second shift today, minding the inn and arguing with Ed over when they should next sail to take a ship. Then there’ll be dinner and reading and he’ll fall into bed with two men at his side and complain about the number of pillows.

 

“Shut up, Bonnet.” Izzy snipes. “I want to stay.”

Notes:

A few quick thoughts:
- Though a lot of this plays incredibly fast and loose with history, some people really do claim that Avery escaped to Madagascar and, because we don't know when he died, he technically could have been alive. (Shhh... play along)
- Yes, I know fish and chips had not yet been invented, but I love the idea of Izzy stealing chips off of Stede's plate.
- We don't get to see Ed and Stede's perspective, but I do think it's fun to imagine. Izzy is not exactly an objective narrator when it comes to certain events, haha.
- Title from Twelfth Night, the Shakespeare play that Stede gives Izzy. Also, yes. The queen pun is also inaccurate, but it was fun and a little flirty. Guinevere and Lancelot have one of literature's most (in)famous affairs, after all :)

If you want Izzy to suffer more, I wrote some backstory for him here which, while not technically a prequel, does line up with this work. You can find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39064161

Come chat with me @tediousdelusion on tumblr! I think I'm going to write a modern divorce AU next and I'll be chatting about that and whatever else catches my fancy :)