Work Text:
The slight detour to shallower waters a few days earlier had seemed odd but not unreasonable given their listless direction lately. However, it was dropping anchor that really clinched it for Izzy: those twats were definitely up to something.
It was late afternoon, the sun still another hour from its crimson plunge below the horizon. Izzy Hands sat at the small writing desk in his cabin, distracted from the comforting tediousness of inventory lists, salaries and general bookkeeping. His room was smaller than the first mate’s quarters on the old Queen Anne’s Revenge. Maybe shoving him in this dinky corner of Bonnet’s fucking Revenge was a revenge in and of itself?
But he secretly preferred it to his old room. Stede Bonnet, that extravagant git, must have envisioned it as an auxiliary study separate from the already excessive library in his own room. Or perhaps Stede had always planned to pick up some poor sap to do his overblown accounting. Izzy added a neat tally at the bottom of a string of numbers and realised he was the hapless sap now.
Lucius could write but was garbage at hard sums and anything that required long bouts of concentration. Stede could write too, but he’d be an even bigger disaster. Edward certainly couldn’t... and wouldn’t. Izzy had offered to teach him many times over so many years, but he supposed nothing would crack that man’s unbending pride. So that left Izzy in the broom closet of a room, pouring over papers.
It was Izzy’s haven: a sufficient writing space with drawers at his knees; a near-empty shelf above his head; a simple cot; a bedside table; and a squat wardrobe. Plus the porthole where he could look out on the endless, almost-unchanging horizon without being observed (though the view was now rendered distressingly static with the dropped anchor).
They’d be coming for him soon. Knocking politely, beating the door down or shouting at him to get his flat ass the fuck out here, depending on the messenger. He grimaced. It was too early to be called to dinner yet: the ridiculous daily all-staff dinners Stede insisted on once the full Revenge crew had been restored and he and Edward made permanent residents. Fang and Ivan had long returned to the Queen Anne… or perhaps fucked off elsewhere. Maybe one of them had even bought or fought their way to being captain of their own ship. Izzy dug four fingernails into the base of his thumb on his ungloved hand. Was giving up a captaincy on the Anne to stay with this rabble… this three-ring goddamn muppet show… worth it just to slink around at Edward’s ankles? He flexed his hand.
No, not dinner yet: today was something else. And they’d be coming for him soon…
He’d recognised the signs. Stede’s linen tablecloths and napkins stacked up surreptitiously. Paper lanterns hung from the rigging. The same fabric scraps sewn into garlands hanging limp and low from doorways. The clusters of different cliques organising the things that surely must be organised. Conversations that abruptly hushed when he walked in the room. Though he hoped the latter was genuinely task-related and not sly animosity toward him. He’d spent what felt like an age avoiding, eye-rolling, spitting, shouting and cursing at the lot of them. But the pangs of subconscious desire to be liked, respected and included had blossomed sluggishly.
It was somebody’s birthday; they’d dropped anchor in the shallows to celebrate as a crew. Izzy was meticulous with dates: you can’t be in charge of the books and not know what day you were up to. But surely no one knew it was *his* birthday. Who could even know? Edward? No, he forgot every year, or took credit when Calico Jack shouted him a round at Jackie’s. (Poor Jack. Izzy was still hoping to hear news Jack had turned up, mostly unscathed, like a bad penny. Maybe that news would come. Maybe not.)
Izzy certainly hadn’t told anyone his date of birth, had he? There were no documents lying around with it squirrelled in with other unassuming information, surely? Then again, Stede had this sixth fucking sense about birthdays. And made such a goddamn song and dance about it. Izzy hated the whole thing. The fuss, the nonsense, the gift procession, the songs, the speeches. Everything. Well, everything except the cake. Though he was keen for no one to ever know that. He only ever took a piece begrudgingly and tried to either look like he wasn’t enjoying it or take it awkwardly back to his room to relish in private later. Mmm… maybe there’d be cake.
He closed the book he was working on and slipped it into a desk drawer. Still no one at the door yet. He turned his chair slightly to look out the porthole.
Oh god… what if this wasn’t even about him? What if no one ever celebrated his birthday again? Fuck, that’d be a relief, he tried to reason. Yeah, bollocks to that. He did a mental calculation of how many crew members’ birthdays they’d celebrated. Just over half. Those odds seemed good. Surely, this would be another crew member. Another time Izzy would be dragged out into the impending sunset just to sit on a barrel or lurk in a corner, try to mentally finish running numbers, or just count the minutes til he could slink away–cake slice on a plate in gloved hand–and lock out the world.
How had no one come for him yet? He’d been sitting staring out the porthole too long. Izzy hadn’t even noticed he’d pivoted on his chair to tuck his left leg under him, ankle now feeling hot and crushed under his thigh. He uncrossed his legs and leapt out of the chair too quickly, blood draining and head spinning. He lay a hand on the wall to steady himself and wriggled toes in his boots to recalibrate. He’d been sitting too long. Time to stomp out to the deck and find out what poor fucker they were glorifying today.
He swung his door open hard, giving no thought to whether someone could be about to knock on the other side, and was met only by an eerie stillness. No one at the door. No one scurrying through the corridor. And, as he walked the few paces to the deck, there were no voices making merry or chattering with the usual business of being onboard a ship. In fact, no one around at all. What in the fuckery was–
“SURPRISE!!!” yelled many voices in semi-unison as the accompanying bodies leapt out from behind barrels, canons, mast and doorway. Fucking mother of Christ, this was worse than he ever could have imagined.
As Izzy steadied himself for the second time in as many minutes, co-captains and nine assorted crew assembled in the vague semblance of a semicircle. The Swede was on Izzy’s furthest left, already tangling hands and arms into the rigging, looking wistfully like he’d rather be climbing it to fawn from above. Black Pete was next, hands on hips, looking equal parts bored and excited. Buttons stood a little in front, tall yet slumped, ready to deliver a non-sequitur or host a seagull. Then to Button’s back-left was Lucius, looking smug and expectant, gleeful even. The little shit. He’d be loving seeing Izzy in such sprung agony as a surprise party. Oluwande and Jim were in the middle, trying hard not to sneak glances at one another and only somewhat succeeding. Frenchie was perched on a canon, just off-centre, guitar-strung over his shoulder. Oh fuck, not the guitar. Roach was standing with his weight on one leg while holding a massive kitchen knife–Christ, why the knife–in one hand. And Wee John was slouched on a crate, looking like all he wanted in the world was a knife of his own.
Edward was on Izzy’s immediate right, and he put one hand on his first mate’s shoulder, whispering low “you alright mate?” Simultaneously a reassurance and a threat. The message was clear: this is important to Stede, so fucking go with it. Izzy nodded, trying to focus on the comfort of the strong, familiar hand… but hand and warmth withdrew as Edward stepped backwards several paces to rest elbows on the handrail. Izzy was alone in this unique brand of torture and it had only just begun.
Stede swept in from fuck knows where, long coat flourishing a swirl, to stand on Izzy’s right, addressing both Izzy and the ragtag crowd.
“Well now,” Stede began, “we’ve all gathered here today in honour of our first mate.”
“Christ, you make it sound like a funeral,” groaned Wee John.
“It’s not a funeral, Wee John. It’s a merry occasion! We don’t get to celebrate our crew every day, you know!” The crew shifted awkwardly, some rolling their eyes, as Stede continued brightly. “And today, a little birdie told me it was none other than the very birth date of our first mate … ooh listen to that, that even rhymed!” Stede turned to Edward looking well-pleased, seeking his recognition. Ed nodded kindly.
Izzy glowered. “A little bird..?” he said between clenched teeth.
“Don’t look a’me, lad,” shrugged Buttons. “The gulls may know many a’secret, but I dinnae ken.”
“But let’s not stand on ceremony, plenty to get through,” buzzed Stede. “Right then. Who’s first?”
Silence ensued, cut only by shuffling. Crew members looked nervously out at the waves, at their feet or pointedly at each other. Edward was leaning back, gazing lazily up at the sky. Stede was wringing hands and looking like he was about to start shaking people until he found a volunteer.
Why was Stede doing all of this? Izzy knew no one liked him, not even Stede. Ed maybe. God, hopefully. But no one liked Izzy’s company. No one sought out the chair next to him at the daily sit-down dinners. No one talked to him about anything that wasn’t work-related. Christ, no one even included him in the whispered organisation of other people’s birthdays. A task he knew he’d be good at. At best he was a potplant, something that could sit in the corner and be ignored until it wilted and died quietly. At worst he was rotten fruit, something everyone avoided dealing with until someone finally decided it was time he was tossed overboard.
Stede trilled again, “Come on! Someone has to go first. Don’t make me start picking on people. I know you wouldn’t like that.”
“I’ll go,” piped up Oluwande, one sheepish hand raised as high as his temple. He shuffled out from behind the crates and around Lucius and Buttons to cross in front of Izzy. He pulled out something odd from his pocket. “Here,” he said, thrusting a round lump towards Izzy.
Izzy’s eyes narrowed and jaw dropped open in suspicion, but his hands opened of their own accord. The lump was unexpectedly heavy. Both smooth and slightly coarse: porous but hard. It was a sickly grey-brown and looked like some piece of shit rock or egg-sized pebble Olu had found on a beach and bafflingly not just ignored or thrown back into the ocean.
“What the fuck–” Izzy started.
“It’s a gift. From me. A geode,” Olu tried to explain nervously. Izzy looked utterly bewildered. “Ok, it’s like a kind of rock with crystals inside.”
In the background, Frenchie’s face lit up.
“I got it from this place that sells heaps of stuff like this. Basically, you have to crack it open with a chisel and hammer, or something else heavy. And then, on the inside, you’ll find it’s covered in tiny crystals in maybe white or purple–or another colour. One of those things where you don’t know what it is until you see the inside, you know?” He shifted, hesitating, “I just thought maybe you’d like something you can take a hammer to.” Oluwande shrugged and retreated back towards his spot beside Jim. Jimenez thumped him gently on the upper arm, with a half-smile/half-frown of pride.
Izzy looked stunned. He blushed but scowled, and shoved the rock–no, ‘geode’–into a pocket, wondering what fresh fucking hell was coming for him next.
“Okay, I’ll go next,” the Swede sang out. He’d been mirroring Edward’s reclining pose, but with either arm linked through rope to the point where he’d woven himself in. He tried to turn on the spot, tangling himself further. Pete stepped forward to assist, but the Swede managed to free himself and then patted down his headband and smoothed his blond hair flat. He bent down behind the closest canon and produced a single wine bottle.
The Swede bounced shyly forward and held the bottle out for Izzy to accept. “It’s glögg,” he announced, looking around for other faces to spark with recognition.
“Glug?” A few voices mouthed or ventured aloud.
“Glögg,” the Swede repeated. “It’s Swedish, of course.” He thrust the bottle forward insistently. Izzy took it and turned it over in his hands. It was unclear if the label had been torn off or it had never been labelled to begin with.
“We drink it when the weather is cooler. At Christmas time. But you could drink it at any time. It’s not even proper glögg. I couldn’t get anything Swedish so it’s just ordinary wine. But with some brandy and spices and raisins and almonds. Oh and we added some orange peel. With winter coming soon, maybe you will enjoy a taste of my country.” He looked around for support from the others. “And Roach helped a bit.”
“It’s like mulled wine,” Roach added.
“Only better,” the Swede agreed.
The Swede skipped back to no doubt re-tangle himself in the ropes, while the rest of the crew broke into small impromptu discussions about how far a single bottle of wine would go amongst them all and how strong a homebrew from the Swede was likely to be.
While everyone was momentarily distracted, Ed sauntered over to Izzy and leaned in conspiratorially. “Jackie sent a case of that port shit you like. I stashed it before we last left dock. Had to keep it hidden or these maniacs would’ve made quick work of it,” he gestured at the crew.
“Muscat, actually,” Izzy breathed back, to himself though as Edward was already wandering away to stand with Stede, slinging an arm around Stede’s waist.
Izzy felt hot despite the cool afternoon sun. Without realising he was doing it, he backed up a few steps until he was almost in line with the second mast, wine bottle in gloved hand, geode in pocket. This was all too much. He couldn’t handle being at the centre of all this.
“Now, now, Israel, there’s no escaping yet. We’re just getting started!” Stede called. “Who’s up next?”
“It would ha’ felt weird following Olu, my gift being geological in nature too,” Buttons began. “But I’m more’n happy to follow this wee lass.” Buttons tipped an imaginary hat at the Swede who giggled sweetly.
“Right, here ye go, wee fella.” Izzy’s lip curled but Buttons continued unperturbed, “I fancy you don’t already have one a’these.” Buttons opened a fist to reveal a single black pearl. The colour was a dark purple-grey and it was misshapen: teardrop-shaped but curved and too bulbous on one side. Almost like a comma. It was flawed and unrefined, but unique. Even beautiful in its own way. “It’s fitting fer ye, lad.”
Izzy had no idea what the fuck that meant, but he snarled anyway. He couldn’t back up any further without walking around the mast, so he took the pearl and added it to his pocket with Oluwande’s gift and placed the wine bottle down on the deck.
Izzy looked out at the horizon as Buttons returned to his spot. Still a long time until sunset. If these twats were going to pantomime this out one-by-one, it was going to take for-fucking-ever. He shifted his weight, flexing his toes. Maybe a storm would hit and capsize the lot of them. Though the few wispy clouds indicated otherwise. He’d give another toe for a storm. Or the chaos of another ship materialising in the distance. Even a fucking beastie from the deep. Anything to get him out of this goddamn–
A knife flew at his face, narrowly missing him to imbed at eye-level in the mast beside him. Izzy’s mind compressed sharply while his hand went swiftly to his sword hilt, ready to unsheathe it and fight. He heard a nervous laugh from the crew–Frenchie’s laugh?–and paused, still ready to strike. The truth of the situation dawned on him suddenly, and he flushed red.
He knew the assailant before he met their eyes. Jim. Of course fucking Jim. No one else could catch him so off guard. He was getting rusty and slack, spending too much time with these amateurs (Jimenez excepted) and not nearly enough time training. As experienced as he was, he still needed to keep his skills keen.
“That’s yours now, if you want it.” It wasn’t a question or an offer, just a statement.
“You can’t just recycle one of your old knives, Jim,” Stede chided. “That’s hardly in the spirit of gift-giving.”
“Yeah… no re-gifting. It was one of the rules,” said Black Pete.
“Don’t you know the rules?” The Swede sounded offended.
Jim ignored everyone, eyes focused on Izzy. “That’s if you can get it out.”
The crew laughed gently, even fondly. But Izzy’s initial redness turned purple. Fuck this humiliation. He didn’t deserve this.
Jim suddenly tossed a second item from their spot behind Frenchie; it arced perfectly across the deck and was caught by Izzy.
“You’ll need this, too.”
It was a holster, black. Too small for a waist, it must be for… his thigh? He stood, baffled, fiddling with the straps.
“So Jim,” said Wee John. “How did you know the exact measurements of Izzy’s thighs?”
The crew burst out with laughter. Izzy shot contempt at Wee John, suddenly desperate for a knife, second-hand or otherwise. He turned away from the hysterics of the crew to retrieve what he realised was actually a dagger. He looked at the tip to guage how deep it was buried in the wood. Maybe it’d been a bad idea to do this now. What if he failed? Did he really need the embarrassment of not being able to pull the dagger out on top of the escalating theatrics and jokes? But, with a grunt of guttural exasperation he hoped no one was close enough to hear, he pulled it free.
He held it in his right hand, low sun glinting off the tip. This was no hand-me-down. This dagger was sharp, clean, new. He ran ungloved fingers down the flat and felt the rough of an engraving. He looked closer and saw a tiny tilted ‘x’ just above the hilt. This wasn’t just brand new, this was made especially for him.
He looked up at Jim, but Jim was deep in conversation with Olu and Frenchie–the latter having spun around on the canon to face them. Izzy carefully sheathed the dagger in the holster–this must be custom too–and placed them reverently on the floor next to the glögg. Maybe he could do this. Maybe he could get through it.
“Alright! Alright!” Stede yelled over the mirth. “Let’s get back to it. That’s enough playing silly buggers.”
The crew exploded into a new round of laughter.
“SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTHS OR I’LL SPIFLICATE ALL OF YOU!” Ed boomed, silencing everyone.
“What’s spiflicate mean?” Stede stage-whispered.
“Don’t know, but it shut this lot up.” Ed whispered back with a wink.
Izzy rolled his eyes.
“Oh Christ, I guess I’ll go next.” Wee John said, remaining seated. “Now I’m not giving you another doll, you fecker. God only knows what you did with the last one. Tossed it overboard or used it as a door stop for all I know.”
“Now, Wee John, let’s stay positive,” Stede chimed.
“Anyway, I made this for you I guess.” He tossed something light towards Izzy.
Izzy caught it, but his mood darkened. Would people stop fucking throwing things at him!
It was a charcoal-grey knitted glove. Just one. Hand knitted, it looked like, judging by the slight unevenness of the stitches. For his right hand? He never took off his glove though, not around other people at least. And he resented the idea that someone wanted to replace his glove with a new one.
He turned the knitted glove over to find a black spade embroidered at the base where the thumb and forefinger met. Wait, this was for his left hand?
Wee John, noting Izzy’s confusion, said, “It’s for winter. To keep your other hand warm. It’s thrummed on the inside so it’s extra cosy. You of all people know how cold it can get onboard a ship. I thrummed it in the same grey colour, so you can hardly notice it on the outside”
Izzy flipped the glove inside out and, sure enough, there were many puffs of extra fibre sewn in. He flipped it right-way-out again and buried it in another pocket.
“I just hope you like the colour. Actually you’re a joy to knit for. I hate having to make a second one the same.”
“Ok, me next!” Roach cried. “Now, we all know how much you like cake…”
Everyone cheered.
Izzy was mortified. How the fuck? They knew his birthday, they knew about cake. What the fuck else did these twats know about him? Fucking nothing, he hoped futilely.
“...But I bake a cake for everyone’s birthday. So that hardly seemed special.”
No cake? Izzy’s mood sunk further.
“Oh, don’t worry, I still baked a cake. It’s a black forest cake. I’ll bring it out and cut it up after dinner,” he brandished the kitchen knife as punctuation. Frenchie and Wee John leaned away in opposite directions. “But I wanted to give you something you can keep. So I got Lucius to write out the recipe.”
Lucius blushed and waved as though humbly accepting imminent praise.
Roach continued, “my late aunt’s wife was German, so I guess it’s a family recipe.” He sheathed the kitchen knife to everyone’s great relief and pulled a small scroll from a pouch in his apron. He stepped around Wee John and walked over to hand it to Izzy. Izzy unravelled it and studied it for a moment. It wasn’t just a list of ingredients and instructions: it had illustrations and what looked like a short story or some other note too. He rolled it back up to stow and slipped it into his now uncomfortably bulging pockets.
“Well that segues nicely to me,” Lucius preened. “Mine’s paper too.” He opened the notebook he’d been clutching to his chest this whole time and pulled a single sheet of paper from somewhere in the middle. He swanned over to Izzy and handed over the paper with a grin before wandering back again.
A few crew members cried out together, “What is it?”
“It’s a swallow,” Lucius boasted. “Well, a drawing of one.”
Izzy peered at the drawing: a small, dark swallow was swooping over a pirate ship. He didn’t recognise it as the Revenge at first as the unicorn figurehead had been replaced with a kraken, its tentacles clasping the sides of the ship.
“The…” Izzy croaked. He realised it’d been some time before he’d said anything out loud. He cleared his throat and tried again. “The bird’s not on the ship?”
“He’s watching over the crew,” Lucius replied.
Izzy was really starting to lose it. This was far too much now. He rolled the paper up to stuff into his vest and was seriously considering turning on his heels out of here. He could barricade himself in his room; the shouts for him to come back out would stop eventually. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even follow him. He could just leave. No one was making him stay.
He lifted his eyes to see Edward glaring at him. “Don’t,” Edward mouthed seriously.
Izzy squeezed hands into fists and released them a few times. This was nearly over. He did a quick mental count: what, three to go? Four if Edward had something. He doubted it. Edward may have remembered–well, been reminded–when Spanish Jackie sent a crate of muscat to the dock. But Edward was the last person to buy or make someone a gift. He’d certainly never participated in any of the other crew birthdays. Why in god’s name would he start with Izzy, of all people. Izzy felt a familiar tug in his chest but forced it down like it was heartburn.
Black Pete uncrossed his arms and stepped forward. “Not to be outdone or anything, I made you a drawing too… it’s pretty good. Well, Lucius helped.” Lucius beamed, pulling another sheet from his notebook and handing it to Pete. Pete held it up and slowly swivelled on the spot so all the crew could see, before walking over to present it to Izzy.
“They’re mermaids?” asked Buttons.
“No, they’re skeletons,” replied Pete. “They’re badass.”
“They’re skeleton mermaids?” the Swede asked, incredulous.
“Skele-maids?” suggested Roach.
“Mer-skellies,” corrected Frenchie.
“Okay, but why are they sixty-nineing?” said Wee John.
“It’s meant to be a metaphor,” exclaimed Pete, visibly irritated, “like for duality and shit. Like the two sides of a person.”
“Which person,” began Jim, “because the hands spell ‘ED’.”
Stede put his hands up, frustrated, “This is meant to be about Izzy, not Ed.”
Izzy’s resolve sank into the ground.
Pete shrugged. “Whatever.” He turned to Izzy, “You probably hate it.” He walked defeated back in Lucius’ direction. “Lucius’ is way better anyway.”
“No babe,” said Lucius, “you drew from the heart.”
“I did my best, babe.”
“I love your best.”
Lucius pulled Pete into an embrace and kissed the top of his head, then pulled back and lowered his chin to kiss Pete more fervently.
“Alright now, enough lollygagging!” called Stede.
Wee John turned to Frenchie with mock slyness, “I’ll gag on your lolly.” Frenchie blushed from cheekbones to toes, but breezily laughed it off.
“Seriously! Enough!” shouted Stede. “We’d better get a damn wriggle on before the sun goes down. Whose turn is it?”
“You haven’t gone,” the Swede sung down from the rigging.
“Oh, right. Of course. Just a tick…” he crossed the deck and disappeared into his room.
Izzy was practically squirming now. The sky was starting to colour and a late autumn chill had hit the air. He wanted to sit down. Or leave. Yes, definitely leave. He was relieved for the few moments out of the spotlight when the crew bantered or, like now, while Stede was no doubt fussing about in his vast quarters. A moment with no one gawking at him, addressing him–
“Technically I got you the most gifts, you know.” Lucius announced out of nowhere. “I must have helped…” he counted on his fingers “like, four people. Plus my own.”
Christ, he was bad at mental arithmetic.
“It’s not a competition,” said Edward with a note of warning.
“No, I know. But I’m just saying. If it was a competition, I totally would have won.”
“Israel is the real winner here,” said Stede, emerging from his quarters. “Just look at this luscious booty.”
The unfortunate innuendo went unnoticed by the crew as they all looked up to see what Stede was carrying.
Stede marched over to Izzy and draped a black robe across his automatically outstretched arms. Izzy was learning it was easier to just accept these things without question if it kept the festivities moving and headed closer to when he could finally escape.
“It’s silk brocade on the outside, black on black. Well, it’s a very dark silver on black. And then the inside is heavy cotton; also black. I wasn’t sure which you’d like better, so I had them make it reversible. There’s embroidery on the cotton side too, but it’s subtle. I know you don’t like anything too… flashy. And now we all go together, the three of us.”
Izzy was distraught.
“I have my yellow, err, fighting jacket.”
“Battle jacket,” Oluwande corrected.
“Yes. Exactly. And Ed won’t return the red–”
“It’s pink,” interrupted Edward.
“Yes, anyway. The point is, the three of us, we make a fine match.”
A cold wave of anxiety washed over Izzy. He looked visibly ill.
“Here,” Stede continued. “Let me see it on. I had it custom made to your, err, height.”
Izzy felt his veins flood with shame.
“Yes, well,” said Stede, noticing Izzy’s expression. “Maybe later. Don’t want to wear it out.” Stede turned back to the wider group. “Right then, anyone else?”
“Just me, I think,” Frenchie motioned to himself. “And I have just the thing.” He strummed the guitar. He nodded to Izzy, “I also have the lyrics written out to give you later. Lucius… well you can probably guess.”
Oh fuck, just kill me, thought Izzy. Let the deep swallow me whole.
Frenchie led a merry tune with the crew inexplicably joining in on each chorus. Had he written an original song and then taught everyone the words and melody to practice in secret? Or was this a parody of an existing song with just the verses rewritten? Izzy never set foot near the jam room so either was possible.
Izzy tuned out the words while they sang of pirate living and pirate responsibility and the joy of having a hard taskmaster who treated them mean but kept them safe… But Izzy barely heard it. He was reflecting back on the events of the afternoon. The overwhelmingness of it. His inability to bear it. How unfair it was. He certainly hadn’t asked for these jerks. They’d been thrust upon him as the family of his boss’... well, his boss’–
“Speech!” someone cried.
They were all staring at Izzy. The song had clearly ended and he hadn’t noticed. God, it was rude of him to not pay attention but he just needed to–
“Speech!” came another voice.
“Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech!” they all chanted together.
This was the moment he’d been dreading above all others. What had he said to himself earlier in this cabin? Fuss, nonsense, gift procession, songs and speeches. He had borne it all as best he could. But now the inevitable. His speech.
“I…” Izzy tried. He coughed, trying to make space for the words to come.
“I just–”
He looked around, desperate. Faces peered back at him: expectant; unsure; some looking like they were on the brink of disappointment with him already. His shirt felt tight, like he’d buttoned it too high. He fidgeted with his tie, wanting to loosen it. But he didn’t want to risk loosen it too far and lose the ring he secured there. He tried unbuttoning the top button behind it. Was he sweating? The walls were swimming. Fuck, what walls? This was out on the deck. He blinked.
“All I wanted–” he tried, failed.
He felt his eyes stinging. Nope, fuck this.
He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether it would look worse to leave gifts or take gifts. His eyes were blurring now and the robe was heavy over his forearm. He knelt down, feeling nearly a dozen eyes boring into him, scooped up what he sincerely hoped was everything and stormed off, not looking back.
He could hear voices fading into the distance behind him.
“Well that was rude!”
“Mad little fecker”
“Ed, do something…”
Someone was even crying, he thought. Or laughing? Laughing at him?
But he couldn’t turn back. He stamped hurriedly to his room, poured assorted gifts onto his bed, and turned to slam the door, angry tears now fully streaming down his face.
~
At least he was safe now. Safe in his small refuge. He watched the last of the sunset diffuse over the still waves as he wiped tears away and set his jaw.
He looked at the cache on his bed, pulling more out of his pockets and vest to join the pile. He rescued the two drawings and the recipe first; couldn’t have them creasing. He laid them out on his desk, weighting the latter down at either end with a mug and heavy coaster. He wanted to study these in more detail but now wasn’t the time. He had things to do. Important things.
The others had no doubt given up on him by now. No one had come knocking or calling out. Good. If they hated him, they hated him. They’d probably finished debriefing about what an utter fuckup he was, and would be sitting down to dinner any minute. But he wasn’t hungry. He didn’t even give a thought to layers of chocolate sponge and cream with cherries and kirsch.
Izzy placed the wine bottle on the corner of his desk. He’d wait for the right moment to enjoy that. If some of the others could tolerate his presence, he might even crack it and share it round. But, if not, he would enjoy it just the same. He liked the sweet stuff, evidently.
Next was the dagger in its holster. He suspected it would fit perfectly, but he didn’t expect it to be quite this comfortable. Resisting the urge to see how fast he could draw it or practice throwing it at the wall, he undid the straps of the holster and placed it in the small wardrobe.
He then tried on the knitted glove on his left hand. It was so warm and snug and fit like, well, a glove. The embroidered spade lined up perfectly with his tattoo, which was so satisfying. He slipped it off… and then took his leather glove off too. Slipping the knitted glove on his right hand, he enjoyed the sensuous feeling of the downy thrumming against untouched skin. He shook his head clear and put both gloves beside the holster.
While he was at it, he loosened and removed his tie carefully, placing the ring on his bedside table. He took off sword, pistol, belt and vest, and returned them all to their usual resting places. He unbuttoned his shirt until it was loose and flowing… then, with a second thought, he took it off completely and put it away. Then picked up the robe from the cot and shrugged it on, silk side out. He was surprised at how soft the cotton lining was. Izzy had never bothered with dressing gowns or long jackets before, they always trailed over the ground. And he’d be fucked if he was going to ask or pay anyone to hem them for him. He liked his vests for that reason: they were always made for someone exactly his height. But this robe was clearly made for him specifically. It felt glorious. He pulled it closed at the breast and turned very slightly on the ball of one foot, wondering how he looked.
It was definitely far superior with the brocade showing. He pulled one side open, inspecting the lining. The embroidery over the cotton was fine but subtle, as Stede has said. But the external brocade was elegant and intricate. And he liked having something fancy showing. Even if, in his empty, mirrorless cabin, it was just the thought of it.
That just left the pearl and the geode. There were plenty of tools lying around the ship, but he’d get to that eventually. For now, Izzy looked up at the shelf above his desk and the few items there. In the farthest corner, a couple of books he’d ‘borrowed’ from Stede’s library: selected poems of John Donne and a collection of sermons translated by Anne Locke that he’d actually taken for the sonnet sequence, A Meditation of a Penitent Sinner . Maybe he should feel guilty about stealing from Bonnet, but Stede would have long realised they were missing and he’d never asked for them back.
The books were hemmed in by his own copy of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night . He couldn’t say why it was his favourite of the plays, especially when he was so inclined to the tragedies. The partial parallel of the main storyline to his recent situation had never occurred to him. He just liked it.
The final item on the shelf was the doll Wee John had given him some months earlier. Izzy was never sure if it was meant to look like himself or just a generic doll person. But it didn’t matter either way. It was one of his most prized possessions; one of his only possessions, sure, but the first thing anybody had made for him. And now he had a wealth of handmade or hand-chosen things. Proof that these twats didn’t hate him after all. That is, if he hadn’t fucked it up by walking out on them.
“I just … all I wanted …” he’d tried to get out, “...was to say thank you.” But he couldn’t even manage that. He felt so honoured by their gifts. It was being the centre of attention that was excruciating. The thought that people were looking at him, judging him, laughing at him. But not the presents and the thought behind them. And, no, he hadn’t asked for these jerks. But for some reason they’d kept him around.
It was so unfair. Other people were gifted with such a way with words. They could be unfiltered and unrehearsed with one another, just saying whatever they thought. Carefree but genuine. They could express the deep, tight, closed-off things… the things behind the walls. But he couldn’t, not out loud. His eyes were burning again. Enough.
He smoothed out his new robe from waist to thighs and sat down at his writing desk, barely registering the delightful way it flowed out over the seat of the chair. It was time he got to work.
~
There was no sun yet, but there was a pre-dawn warmth in the dark sky that matched the low glow of candlelight. He went to get up, remembered his dizzy spell earlier–no wait, the previous day now–and got up carefully. Good lord, how many hours had he sat here? He stretched stiff muscles and tilted his head: ear to left shoulder then ear to right shoulder. He was fit, sure, but he didn’t usually pull all-nighters, especially not writing.
A dozen envelopes were spread out methodically over his desk. Each one addressed to its recipient in his neat handwriting, sealed and stamped with a custom wax seal. He’d gotten into a rhythm so he hadn’t needed to wait for ink to dry on each letter before folding it and writing the next, but now he had to wait for twelve wax seals to harden. While they tended to cool quickly, he didn’t like to bump them and end up with a thumbprint or gouge through one. Precision showed care, he always thought.
He’d thought of thank you cards first. He could cut notepaper into business card size and address each to an individual with a personalised “Thank you for the birthday present”. But, before he’d gotten that far, he’d already thought of more things he would want to cram on there. It didn’t seem right just to say thank you. He wanted to express what these gifts meant. Adorning his bare room (and himself) with things from people who actually tolerated him pretty well. He was better in writing. He just never seemed to be able to get the words out in person. Always self-editing and second-guessing. But, in print, he could take his time. He’d taken all night.
Ten were addressed to the crew members who’d given him gifts. The eleventh to Jackie, of course. He wouldn’t be able to mail or hand deliver it until they reached port again, but Jackie waived off thanks anyway. For Izzy, it was the principle of the thing. You always said thank you. And the twelfth… he’d almost not written the twelfth. This was the one where he really didn’t know what to write. The words had spilled out of him for the other eleven, some longer than others. But the twelfth…
It couldn’t have been a thank you; I mean, a thank you for what? For just being present? But it felt wrong to write to everyone but Edward. But there were other things to say… bigger things… and, finally, the words had come.
The crew would each have to get either Lucius or Stede to read theirs to them. He hoped Edward at least had the forethought to ask Stede to read his to him in private. Fuck, he hadn’t thought about fucking Bonnet reading it. Maybe he should just—No. He’d written it now. And he was stubborn enough to follow through, even if his entire being was screaming at him to tear it up, burn it or throw it out the porthole for fish to eat.
His mind flicked back to Twelfth Night, “What’s to come is still unsure; in delay there lies no plenty.” Time to stop staring at wax and words, and actually finish this.
He rifled through drawers, then wardrobe, and then drawers again, until he found it. A small metal tin that housed a sewing kit and, yes, thank the fucking lord, a dozen or so pins. He then hung the robe carefully in the short wardrobe, the irony of its height never lost on him, and got dressed. He’d wash up properly later, he was on a schedule. Fuck, he was hungry though. Maybe if he ducked out now, he could swipe something from the kitchen before Roach got up to cook. He looked out the porthole again but the sun was properly streaking up the firmament. Scratch that, Roach would have been up for a while now. And most of the others.
~
It wasn’t normal for everyone to eat breakfast together. Stede insisted on crew dinner but, as the last one to rise (hours after Izzy and Roach), he could hardly expect everyone to wait for him. And Bonnet certainly wasn’t going to get up any earlier. So, they all ate breakfast in their own time and went about their morning ablutions and chores. There did tend to be a cross-over time though, when the majority were eating and the remainder were either buried in high concentration jobs or out of sight in their rooms.
If he could just time this right…
He crept out of his cabin. Socks on, boots off: this was a stealth mission. He snuck towards the dining area. Thank Christ for the morning condensation fogging up the windows. He could stand far enough away to count heads without anyone being able to make him out as distinct from the background. He was surprised and delighted to count nine heads around the table. Ten would be Roach in the kitchen. Eleven: Bonnet still asleep, no doubt. Fuck, that could present a problem. Though Stede did sleep like the dead. And twelve: fuck, who had he missed.
He counted again, still one unaccounted for. Had he counted Jackie by mistake? No, there were definitely twelve of them onboard the ship. Fuck. Oh, himself of course, he was number twelve. Christ, he needed sleep. Maybe he could take a nap later. No one would know. If he got through this unseen, he might even be able to nap through the late morning and then surface for lunch. His stomach gurgled. Maybe not.
He started with the riskiest place to get it out of the way: the co-captain’s quarters. He inched the door open and closed it behind him, then tiptoed across floorboards and rugs, hoping like fuck Stede wouldn’t stir. Izzy felt a white wave of shock as he looked over at Stede and Edward’s bed. It was empty and perfectly made. He looked around the room, panicked: it was, to his relief, completely unoccupied. He had no idea where the fuck Stede was though and his skin was prickling with the wretched anticipation of hearing a “hi, ho!” or an “Israel?” any minute.
He gazed at the bed, trying to guess who slept on which side, and his mouth curved up ever so slightly, dimples appearing, at the thought of these two together. Oh, there was still the old hurt. A hurt that was, even now, like a crack of lightning through the core of him. A hurt that stopped his heart for a beat and almost doubled him over, making him shake his head with stupid fucking regret and more goddamn words he should never have left unsaid. But he did like Edward happy. Even if it wasn’t him that... Would never be him…
He shook his head again, this time rattling it clear and cursing at himself to concentrate. He lay a letter on either pillow just as a muffled crash-thud sounded from the adjacent wall. Stede fucking Bonnet was in his fucking auxiliary closet.
Izzy fled as silently as he possibly could.
The remaining letters were distributed without drama, left on bedside tables for those with rooms or pinned to a pillow or rolled-up hammock for everyone else. He’d originally assumed he’d just leave letters where their intended recipient would find them, and then paled with the horrifying thought of them flying away into the ocean. God, if that had happened, he would have been sorely tempted to dive in after them, even if the ink would have been blurred beyond legibility. But thankfully it was a moot point.
He walked lightly now, trying not to celebrate a successful mission before he could return, undetected, back to his cabin. He passed the dining area on his way back and paused, noting the window was still partially clouded over and the smells of hot breakfast were wrapping urgent fingers around his stomach. Still nine people, animated and voices blending to a cheerful thrum. How were they all here and not getting on with the day’s tasks? Oh, of course, they’d anchored in secluded shallows. No one was following routine because no one had to do anything until they lifted anchor.
As Izzy watched, one figure stood and walked around the table, presumably taking a plate back to the kitchen. As they approached to move past the window, Izzy caught a flash of yellow. Fuck! The battle jacket! Stede? He’d been up this whole time? Then who–?
Izzy didn’t want to watch any longer. He just wanted to be home in his room. He wasted no time sprinting back, socked feet skidding slightly as he swerved around a corner or past an obstacle.
At last, his leather-gloved hand turned the handle to his sanctuary, door swung in and Izzy was grinning in victory… until he noticed something odd. He stepped in and pulled the door quickly shut behind him. Someone had been in his room.
Everything was fine, untouched even, but the room smelled of something… something nice? And there was an item on his bedside table.
A small plate with the most enormous piece of black forest cake.
Was this Roach? Izzy hadn’t actually seen him in the kitchen past the dining area, just assumed he was there. But surely Roach would never dare to enter Izzy’s room… not even for an act of kindness.
He was absolutely starving but didn't want to eat cake for breakfast. He certainly didn’t want to waste good cake on a ravenous empty stomach. Though he supposed he could eat half now and half later… if he had that kind of self control? He decided instead to get a couple hours’ sleep, if he could. Or rest, at the very least. He picked up the plate to move it to his desk and stopped short when he saw an envelope that had been hidden underneath.
His envelope. His stationery. His seal.
He put the cake back down with a tiny clank and sat on the bed, willing his tired eyes to focus.
The clue was on the front: a name Izzy had written earlier that was now crossed out. Edward. And written next to it, in scratchy but deliberate handwriting, was Izzy’s name.
Izzy’s heart clenched and slunk into his guts. His mind reeled with a barrage of competing thoughts: Ed had read his letter? Ed could read? How had he read it so quickly? It had been pages…
He took off his glove, laying it softly next to him, and rubbed a thumb tenderly over his own name. Ed could write? He took a moment to bask in the sheer bliss of the way his name looked in Edward’s hand.
Two things suddenly dawned on Izzy.
One: Edward was who he’d heard in Stede’s closet. He must have emerged not long after Izzy left only to find a mysterious letter on his pillow (with another left for Stede). So Edward had read the letter and, what, stopped into the kitchen for a slice of cake to bring to Izzy while Izzy was still delivering the other letters? How he and Edward had not bumped into one another was beyond him… but he supposed it was technically possible. Maybe Edward had crossed over the deck while he’d scurried through a downstairs corridor? Or if Ed had gone straight downstairs while Izzy was up on deck? It didn’t matter.
Two: Edward was the fourth person Lucius had helped. Lucius had helped with Pete’s drawing, Roach’s recipe and Frenchie’s lyrics. And he’d taught the great Blackbeard himself to read and write. Christ, they must have been having lessons in secret for months now. Izzy thought he knew all their routines and patterns… but, after all this time, he still didn’t fully know Edward’s.
Izzy knew this could hurt if he let it. That Edward had allowed himself to be vulnerable enough with someone else to accept help. That he’d shunned Izzy’s many offers to teach him and yet let this boy–
Izzy breathed a deep breath, letting it raise his shoulders and expand his chest. He didn’t want to hurt anymore.
He had newfound treasures displayed or nestled around his room. He had a crew. He had… friends? And, in his hands, his bare hands, a gift from Edward.
The envelope was ripped jaggedly across the top, though the seal was still intact. Inside was a small scrap of paper, no doubt ripped from the bottom of something else. And, written on it in what Izzy could now recognise as Edward’s handwriting, were four words. Four words Izzy had been longing to hear for years. Izzy smiled.