Chapter Text
All their problems began with a dollop of milk and seven sugars.
The Revenge had hit a bit of a lull lately. Not a becalming, but enough of a slow stretch that even a group like Bonnet’s, used to lying about and doing fuck all, had started to get antsy. The sea had only provided them with dinghies and the occasional sloop to "conquer," which Bonnet did with all the enthusiasm of a simple-minded child. Their loot, such as it was, consisted of a bit of rope, a single salmon, and a Mommouth cap that, in Bonnet's words, looked quite fetching on Buttons—and not for the first time Izzy wondered why one of the only true sailors on this vessel was wasting his time with such a twat.
Then again, Buttons was also mad as a March hare. He still moon-bathed twice a month and claimed to be fluent in three dialects of seagull, so Izzy had likely just reached a point of disgustingly low standards.
The point—and the sad reality—was that they weren't raiding at a pace capable of sustaining a crew of fourteen. Oh, they still had plenty of food left in their stores. Frankly, it was a hell of a lot more than Izzy was used to seeing in any one place, even during the height of Edward's reputation, but apparently avoiding starvation wasn't enough for the Gentleman Pirate.
"No, no. This won't do," Bonnet tutted, gesturing to the expanse of offerings on his breakfast table. Izzy felt a muscle in his cheek twitch because from where he was standing, this would 'do' just fucking fine. Most pirates didn't even bother with breakfast, let alone dine on eggs, ham, and a platter's worth of other delicacies that were better turned into coin. Izzy was just about to ask what he was supposed to do about Roach's cooking when Bonnet picked up one of the bowls and shoved it under Izzy's nose. So, he did the only logical thing when offered an empty pot.
He spat in it.
"Oh, really—!" It was with grim satisfaction that Izzy watched Bonnet drop the dish back onto the table, wiping his hand on his shirt with a level of disgust that would have been insulting if he actually gave a shit.
"We're out of sugar," Bonnet said, fraying patience seeping into every word. "And we're nearly out of milk too."
There should have been more to the conversation. Izzy had been summoned away from inspecting the cannons—an actual fucking necessity if they ever hoped to take something bigger than a fisherman's boat—so surely, surely his captain's plaything hadn't interrupted the actual running of his ship for...?
It was too early for this. Izzy resisted the urge to raise a hand to his head, knowing that any sign of weakness would just result in one of those insufferably smug looks. Or worse, Bonnet would change tact and try to comfort him.
He settled for a sneer. "So? Are you a fucking cow, Bonnet?"
"No, but I'm dealing with a whole lot of bull right now.” Before Izzy could respond Bonnet had drawn a deep breath and plastered one of those disgustingly fake smiles on his face.
“Izzy. You’re in charge of our bookkeeping, are you not?”
Technically he was, though not by choice. Edward had always made sure there was at least one other crewmember who knew their numbers and letters onboard the Queen Anne and though he sure as fuck didn’t trust them, he did trust Izzy to instill the fear of God in the bastards—or whatever passed for God in these parts. Izzy knew his own numbers and thanks to said ‘management’ had memorized the shape of certain words that tended to show up in a pirate’s ledgers, but the reality was he could no more balance the books than he could run Spanish Jackie’s bar. Izzy made mental notes of what crossed the gangplank, what was served at meals, what they’d sold, and worked to ensure that they didn’t all lose their faculties to scurvy. If Bonnet wanted more than that, he could damn well make the Spriggs boy lift a finger for once.
There was a push and pull between them these days though; a fragile tether that, if broken, would only end badly for Izzy given Edward’s tendency to side with his new pet. So instead of cutting that smile right off Bonnet’s face, Izzy clenched his teeth and breathed,
“Yes.”
Bonnet took a step forward, that smile morphing into a smirk. Izzy had often felt the same gracing his own lips right when he was about to land a lethal blow that—ah.
Shit.
“Excellent! Then as both bookkeeper and first mate, I assume you’re just as invested in ensuring that Ed has milk and sugar for his tea as I am, yes?”
There it was. The only fucking reason why Izzy hadn’t murdered Bonnet in his bed and Bonnet hadn’t used his—unfortunately—not inconsiderable influence to force Izzy off the ship. He hated the twat and every flouncy, blue-blooded absurdity he represented.
Unfortunately, Edward did not.
I went out on a limb for you, you little shit.
Not my problem. Why’d you even do it in the first place?
Because it’s my job to make sure that Edward is content. And he adores you. Why, I’ll never know… but he does.
Months since their first fuckery and Izzy still didn’t know what Edward saw in Baby Bonnet. Or rather, he did. Izzy now understood precisely what Edward longed for, just not why it had to come from Bonnet of all people. If his captain wanted to dress in flouncy clothes then fuck, Izzy would raid the nearest gentry vessel and murder anyone who dared question Blackbeard’s choices. If he wanted goddamn bedtime stories then Izzy would buckle down, learn the rest of his letters, and read them himself—every night if necessary. He wouldn’t like it, oh no, not one fucking bit, but when had being Blackbeard’s first mate ever been about what he wanted? Israel Hands was a tool, wielded by the greatest sailor the seas had ever known, and the dagger didn’t question whether it was used to run an enemy through, or slice up some fancy fucking cheese. The only thing you couldn’t do was leave it to rust on a shelf.
Izzy wasn’t going to die for Edward, but only because then there wouldn’t be anyone left to watch his back. He couldn’t leave then either and fuck, he couldn’t risk that Edward’s growing boredom wouldn’t lead to some suicide mission—Haven’t tried that yet, have I, Iz? All that was left then was to tend to a version of his captain that had started desiring everything that Izzy was not.
Enter Stede Bonnet and his tea.
“And what would you like me to do about it?” he sighed, craning his neck to stare Bonnet full in the eye. A sliver of satisfaction ran through Izzy when Bonnet leaned back, just an inch. “If you were a proper pirate, we would have plenty of both by now, but no. The Gentleman doesn’t do that, does he? Always leaving half for the enemy crew. No killing allowed, so there are no bodies to pilfer. It’s no wonder you’ve run dry of all your fancy fucking shit. You want sugar, Bonnet? Pick up your sword and go take some.”
Loathe as he was to admit it, Izzy knew their current lack of supplies had little to do with Bonnet’s ineptitude. Even Blackbeard couldn’t conjure up a ship from thin air, but Izzy wasn't in the business of playing fair. Watching the prat go purple in the face was a rare treat, one he’d be savoring the memory of for days to come. They were so close now that Izzy could feel the heat pouring off Bonnet as his temper rose; see the tiny quiver of his mouth as his teeth ground together.
“Gonna practice on me?” Izzy whispered, practically begging the twat to finally grow a spine and lash out. Izzy knew he wanted to. Bonnet had been all but salivating at the prospect of taking his eye that first day and since then their tether had only stretched further, drawn tighter—something had to snap.
Do it. Hit me. Give me the excuse. Even Edward couldn’t fault him if Bonnet was the one to strike first and Izzy’s blood sang at the prospect of someone laying knuckles against his cheek. Yes, even a soft, dainty hand like Bonnet’s. Hit me. Izzy was practically begging him for it.
Which was probably why the bastard took a deep breath and stepped back, widening the gap between them.
Fuck.
“No,” Bonnet said, smiling again. “There’s no need for that. Set a course for the Republic of Pirates. We still have several bolts of silk and I’m sure someone would be willing to trade them for sugar. Besides, perhaps we’ll meet someone to raid along the way! Go on and tell Ed now, there’s a good chap.”
Just like a master dismissing his pup. Bonnet hadn’t been the one to collar him, but Izzy could growl and snap for him all the same, scream that of course they wouldn’t meet anyone—was this a fucking soirée?—on their way to the Republic because that was nowhere near the goddamn merchant routes. What pirate didn’t know that? What fool thought a temporary sweetener was worth giving up several bolts of silk?
Izzy knew the answer though and he clenched his teeth around useless questions, having learned months ago that they weren’t worth the breath used to speak them. He just gave a short nod in response, barely a tick, and didn’t stay to watch Bonnet’s smile grow at his obedience. Izzy turned on his heel and exited the cabin at a pace which, on anyone else, might have been considered a run.
He might not have Bonnet’s book learning, but he was damn smart enough to play the game.
As a general rule, first mates of pirate ships didn’t last very long. Their positions were coveted, or else they in turn desired the captain’s power, resulting in a mutiny—successful or otherwise—within the first few years. There was always a murder attempt, a run in the dead of night on a stolen dinghy, an anchoring born of disappointment and displeasure. Izzy was the only first mate he knew of who hadn’t simply lasted three years, but three decades, maintaining a precarious balance between being irreplaceable and intractable—good enough that Blackbeard would never hang him from the mast, but not worth the effort of others trying to pinch him, or simply take him off the board. At least, that was the image they presented in public. The simple reality was that Israel Hands was loyal. Truly loyal in a way that few understood anymore.
It was why Edward trusted him with The Box.
The likes of Bonnet had their fancy banks to keep wealth hidden and secure, but pirates lived and died on their ships, making them just as easily plundered as they were capable of doing the plundering themselves. Burying treasure at the base of trees? Absurd. They'd sooner give it to the sea. Edward had known that the Queen Anne might fall for any number of reasons and that the captain’s cabin would be the first place enemies looked for hidden valuables. After all, what captain trusted someone other than himself with the loot? The Box was only special to the two people who knew why it was able to exist.
It appeared innocuous on the surface, more of a chest, really, with a simple lock and a well-weathered exterior. Izzy kept it at the foot of his cot, where other sailors would place their clothes, or a perhaps a spare weapon—certainly nothing worth hiding. The key he kept on a chain around his neck, buried beneath his shirt, vest, cravat, and the ring. If someone were to take it off him, they wouldn’t even know what to pair it with; they’d painted the lock years ago so the two wouldn’t appear to match.
The idea was a simple one. After every raid Edward would slip his first mate a few extra pieces to squirrel away. Coin. Jewelry. Spices. Swatches. He never told Izzy to save the best bits, but he’d done that from the start, slowly accumulating them a stash of riches masquerading as an insignificant part of the ship. Edward had given the standing order the night he made Izzy first mate: snatch The Box if there was trouble and meet him at their designated spot. If they both lived, they’d have something to re-build on.
There had never been any question of whether Izzy would show up; not even a thought spared to him taking The Box for himself. Sometimes though, in the dead of night when Izzy's thoughts tended to run in tight, panicked circles... he wondered if Edward would show. Were The Box’s contents worth keeping him on as first mate? Living a life that was just the two of them?
Shaking his head, Izzy stalked down to the room he'd commandeered when they'd first come abroad, latching the door and pushing a barrel in front for good measure. He kept it there for just that reason. After all, it wouldn't do for any of Bonnet's playthings to poke their noses where they didn't belong and God knew none of them had any sense of privacy—or self-preservation. Izzy would simply hate to enter the Republic with an offering for Jackie's new jar.
From there it was just a moment's work to retrieve his key and unlock The Box, Izzy's hand stealing into the corner. There, wrapped in blue paper, was a small cone of refined white sugar, placed there after Bonnet had gone on and on about the quality of this particular brand. Izzy shaved a portion off into a handkerchief, locked The Box, and kicked the door shut behind him, feeling the reverberation up through his leg. He felt no guilt about taking a bit of their savings now.
It was all for Edward, after all. Now or later, consumed or sold, all it really came down to was serving his captain.
"You! Cook. Make me a cup of tea."
Izzy could admit, if only in the privacy of his own mind, that Bonnet had at least three reliable fucks on his crew. Buttons knew his way around a ship, Jimenez possessed rare skill with a knife in their hand... and Roach was downright insane. But the useful kind of insane that Izzy could work with, provided there was enough loyalty in that head of his—or just common sense—to keep from turning his inclinations on his allies. Right now though, things didn't look good with Roach glaring at him from across the counter, meat cleaver in hand.
"Do I look like your personal maid?" he asked. Behind him something bubbled on the stove and Izzy's nose twitched, traitorously interested in the smell.
"No, you look like the fucking cook. Now make me a cup of tea before we see how your fingers taste in that stew."
When Roach just continued to stare (that was the problem with reliable fucks: they knew their worth and didn't intimidate easily) Izzy swallowed down the indignity of having to explain himself and said, "It's for the captain."
"Oh, well heaven forbid the captain go without tea right after breakfast!" Roach threw up his hands, that cleaver arcing dangerously close to his hair. "Your captain or my captain? Ah, doesn't matter. They’re both fussy little pricks when they haven’t eaten, eh? You realize you don’t make a cup of tea, right? It has to be a pot, which requires boiling, boiling fresh water—which we have very little of right now.” Roach was already pulling out a kettle though, banging everything about in a manner that Izzy might have found relatable if it wasn’t aggravating his newly discovered headache. “You tell the captain, whichever captain, that they’re drinking this whole thing because if I find that a single drop has gone to waste, I will make them eat hardtack for the next three weeks and they will like it.” A forceful slap of Roach’s hand on the counter accompanied the threat, which felt too Bonnet-like for Izzy’s nerves. Threatening with enjoyment. What a joke. He was tempted to tell Roach to pick the cleaver back up and fucking commit to it.
“I don’t suppose they said what kind they’d like?” Roach gestured to a frankly obscene collection of tins before immediately rolling his eyes. “No. Why would they? Why make this easy? I enjoy a challenge as much as the next man, but if the captains continue to expect miracles, I will slit their throats and they can ask their God for them instead!”
Better, but—
“If you so much as breathe near Blackbeard—”
“Oh don’t get in a tizzy, Izzy. I threaten out of love. Now shut up and I won’t rearrange your face, hmm?”
It was a testament to how goddamn tired he was that Izzy snapped his jaw shut and leaned against the doorjamb, telling himself that it just wasn’t worth parsing through the man’s particular brand of insanity. Boiling the water seemed to take an age though and then there was the making of the tray, Roach opening up every drawer and cabinet on the goddamn ship, looking for accompaniments that weren’t there. Izzy finally snatched it all out from under his wandering hands and made a beeline for the door.
“You’re welcome!” Roach yelled.
Once safely out of the galley Izzy dumped the tray next to the door, selecting a single teacup with the least offensive design: a small, purple flower that reminded him of an island farther west, the one with a flowering bush sometimes used in tinctures. Edward would no doubt recognize it. After pouring a cup, Izzy was tempted to dump the rest into the sea… but the cook was right. There was more to worry about than Bonnet’s fancy palate and if they really were starting to run low on fresh water, Izzy knew they couldn’t afford to dump a whole kettle of it.
You’re the one wasting it, a voice whispered, sounding suspiciously like Bonnet’s scribe. Izzy scowled. No, someone would drink the tea because the crew was made up of a bunch of freeloaders who wouldn’t think twice about taking whatever they came across, concepts like punishment and stealing and fucking rations so far removed that it sometimes felt like he’d tumbled into another world entirely. Still, he had what he’d come for and it was with a vicious pleasure that Izzy added the sugar he’d brought as he climbed to the helm.
“Here.”
Edward was draped over the wheel, languid, turning it only when the motion of the ship rocked him one way or the other, almost as if the ship were steering itself. No wonder they hadn’t fucking found anyone to raid, but Izzy bit down on his complaints and shoved the teacup under Edward’s nose. His eyes flicked open like a contented cat’s and when they landed on Izzy the previously cool morning become suddenly, blisteringly hot.
“Tea,” Izzy said. His voice sounded strangled to his own ears.
But then Edward grinned. A smile, unbidden, and it was soft and slow and solely for—
“This from Stede then?”
He took the cup from Izzy’s numb fingers, admiring it like he once would have eyed a fine blade. “Ah, bugger. He’s too good to me. Don’t even need to ask for tea anymore—or steal it! Stede just gives it away, the madman. Specially delivered too.” Edward winked and a funny tug started up in Izzy’s chest, the same sensation that sometimes appeared when Edward would complement Ivan for the rigging Izzy had ordered done, or congratulate the crew on a raid won by his sword. That sideways acknowledgement had always been enough. More than enough, truly, because the crew were an extension of the first mate, as surely as he was an extension of the captain. They were parts of a single organism all working towards the same goal: survival.
Stede Fucking Bonnet was not a part of that.
So Izzy was just about to say that no, Bonnet hadn’t sent him with tea. He had, in fact, given up and Izzy had been the one to bully the cook into making some for him and found sugar to go with it. His initiative was what kept this whole, worthless vessel afloat, which if anyone were to ask was a fuck-ton more important than tea. It was him, only him, so if Edward would just pull his head out of his ass he’d—
But then Edward’s expression soured. Like someone had shoved a lemon wedge between his teeth—and didn’t those come with fancy teas sometimes?—his face folded in on itself and his throat worked like he was trying not to spit the drink back out.
“The fuck?” he said, examining the teacup like it had personally offended him. “Is this the chamomile? I hate that shit.”
…right.
“Did he oversteep it too? That’s not like him.”
How long had Izzy stood there, dithering over the tray?
“And why’s all the sugar sittin’ at the bottom? No milk?”
Izzy closed his eyes when Edward stuck his finger into the cup, swirling it around a couple of times. He should have left it at that. This was good, even. Let Edward think that Bonnet was slipping; had fucked something up once again. Worse, fucked up the sort of fancy shit he was supposed to be good at. The Izzy of a few months ago would have snatched at the opportunity with both hands, several steps into planning a fuckery of his own that would end in Edward finally realizing that the ponce had nothing of true value to offer him. Most of what Bonnet showed off was ephemeral, no more trustworthy than a mirage, and the rest? Well, what was a first mate for if not to serve his captain? Izzy would get Edward whatever he wanted.
Problem was, he'd just tried. The truth wormed its way out of his throat despite how he worked to swallow it back down.
“Ah… no, boss.” Izzy gestured uselessly to the cup. “Not Bonnet. I just thought…”
It took longer than it should have for Edward to put the pieces together and when he did the almost comical look of surprise sent a hot flush of embarrassment down Izzy’s neck. Instinctively he made a grab for the cup, intending to shatter the stupid thing against the side of the ship, but Edward held it just out of his reach, a baffled smile replacing the soft one for Bonnet. Izzy’s headache spiked.
“Shit, Iz. You made this?” Edward took another gulp of the tea and grimaced, though a laugh bubbled up around it. Izzy didn’t know if that made things better or worse. “Better stick to the sword fighting, mate. Not sure tea making is really your thing. What’s that even called? Is there a word for someone who just makes tea? Bet there is. Fancy fucks would want that, I’m sure. Stede probably knows.” Edward examined the cup more closely, seemingly ignorant to the hissed breaths Izzy was releasing into the air. “You got the periwinkle right though.”
“The what?”
“Periwinkle.” Edward tapped the design with his nail, head cocked. “The flower. You know I love them.”
No, I didn’t.
Izzy knew that Edward prized the plant as a useful resource for his crew, one that assisted in treating the diseases that inevitably crept onto ships; helped alleviate the bites from insects whenever they pulled into shore. It was the leaves they gathered on hot days and crushed for their juice. The fucking flowers weren’t important.
Yet here his captain stood, dressed in a bright purple shirt with a flowered cup in his hand—one Izzy had stupidly given him.
“Fuck periwinkle,” Izzy spat, ignoring the frown lines that gathered between Edward’s eyes. “Your precious co-captain has ordered a course for the Republic. Do you concur?”
Edward blinked. “Well sure. If that’s what Stede wants.”
That’s all it came down to anymore. Bonnet’s orders, Bonnet’s tea, Bonnet’s every fucking whim and Izzy hadn’t signed up for that. No, he’d offered himself body and soul to Blackbeard—even to Edward, if that’s who was captaining now. But not Bonnet. There was only one ring on his cravat, one signature on his cheek. Israel Hands was a dog who served a single master… one who kept handing the leash off to another.
Izzy did the only thing he could then: he pulled his tether as far as it would go, stalking off to get away from the heat, the smell of tea, Edward’s baffled expression. He didn’t bother to temper his cursing as he went and his door, when it slammed shut, could be heard across the whole ship.
Thus, Izzy missed Edward giving the teacup a considering look before trying a third sip. Then a fourth.
“Bit of an acquired taste,” he muttered before happily downing the rest and setting their course for the Republic.