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Izzy always ran hot after a raid. A good fight, even with the useless crew of the Revenge, was the closest he got to the old times he’d enjoyed with Ed. When Edward became Blackbeard, raids were exhilaratingly orchestrated affairs, with Ed cackling in the rigging, pyrotechnics covering the ships with smoke and cinders. The two of them had a rhythm, an understanding of each other that made their battles feel like dances. Every step Ed took, Izzy covered, knowing without looking exactly where Ed was and where he needed to be. Izzy had to work double time to watch his back, while also making sure no one noticed the trail of the not-quite-dead he left in his wake. And Izzy’s blood burned with it – with the gut-deep satisfaction of knowing his captain was safe, happy and successful. 

The hard work paid off, though, when the legend of Blackbeard became so big, so haunting, that men stopped fighting back. It made his job a lot easier, kept his crew safer. The more scared mariners were of Blackbeard, the less often Izzy had to send purses off to widows and good sailors to watery graves. Izzy no longer had to fight tooth and nail to keep his captain alive and victorious. None of that was worth it to Ed, though. Ed stopped having fun, started whinging about there not being any magic left, no life left on the ocean, no joy to be had. And every year Izzy lost more of him. 

Raiding ground to a halt when the Revenge ran aground and Edward got obsessed. The few raids they did manage were treated like jokes, farcical fantasies so Bonnet could play pretend pirate for a few hours before Izzy had to clean up the mess.  He was used to working hard, to stretching himself thin to make sure a story as big as Blackbeard was bulletproof. But to work so hard for so little in return? No respect from the crew, no time with his captain, and no spoils or prizes. He hadn’t thought it could get worse.

He had been wrong.

In the terror-filled and sleepless weeks of Bonnet’s desertion Blackbeard pushed Izzy nearly to breaking, almost surpassing his ability to keep them both alive. There were times that Izzy had drug his captain back to his quarters by the scruff of his neck, bloodied and screaming, accusing the man of trying to get them all killed. At the time he just thought Edward had needed more and more danger to get the same thrill he used to get before Bonnet had hollowed him out. Now, he knows the man was looking for a good enough reason to fall and stay down. 

Still, Izzy always made sure he made it out, even if sometimes it was just by the skin of his teeth. 

With Bonnet and his circus of idiots back aboard, raiding wasn’t easy. Ships didn’t automatically beg for quarter, the meager crew he was allowed couldn’t be trusted to clear cabins and companionways, and Feeney was the only one on board who could get anywhere close to cutting a mast with cannon fire. If keeping Edward safe was twice the work of surviving a raid, keeping Ed and Bonnet both alive quadrupled it – and if it hadn’t been for the whole betrayal and treason hiccup, Izzy would’ve asked for an increase in his share.

But boarding a merchant vessel with Ed at his side, eyes ablaze with hunger and glee? Hearing his laugh ring out over the sound of panic and fear? That at least felt like home. Sometimes they would fall into step together and even though their bones creaked they would smile with blood- splattered teeth like boys again. 

Bonnet and his idiots were coming along as well; slowly (very slowly) improving. Without his toe, Izzy had had to relearn his craft, replacing years of muscle memory with new accommodations. He’d trained with his sword every hour he wasn’t spending keeping the ship afloat until he could trust himself with Edward’s safety again.

Bonnet started joining him.

He was not invited.

He was invited to eat glass and drown, in fact.

But the man would not be shaken off, like the fucking barnacle he’d proven himself to be, and after a few nights of copying Izzy’s drills he’d already showed improvement. Against all evidence Izzy had available, Bonnet had a sharp mind and made for a competent student. Izzy was fairly sure the man hadn’t cut himself on his own blade in months now. 

He wasn’t talented enough to be trusted with Blackbeard’s back on a raid, not alone, and he could successfully defend his own life only 30 percent of the time, so Izzy still had his work cut out for him. But at least now, when the smoke cleared and he shook his sweat-streaked hair out of his eyes, he saw Ed grinning at him again. Now, raids usually ended with Ed pulling Bonnet and Izzy both into a loud and sweaty embrace. Bonnet was always careful to angle his body away from Izzy’s, keeping his impractical suits clean of the blood and gore that he was always steeped in, but his laughter was genuine, and when he turned and blasted Izzy with his crinkly smile he could almost believe that they were on the same team.

That hot rush of a job well done, his crew provided for, his bones still vibrating from the impact of wood and steel, only lasted as long as the boarding party did. 

Once his boots were back on the (perpetually dry and cracking) boards of the Revenge, his blood-fever fizzled out. When they were young men together, Ed and Izzy would collapse against each other in a pile of fresh spoils and their own spilt blood. When they’d grown into bitter old men, Ed would lock himself away in his cabin until the next adrenalin rush and Izzy would keep the books while the crew made repairs. Now, with Bonnet and Ed cheerfully co-captaining once again, Izzy got to help them refurbish their love nest, where they retired together for post-battle satisfaction, while he bullied a scattered and unfocused crew into doing the basic maintenance that was required to keep a boat above water.  

Raids like today’s were the new normal. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than the alternative. Izzy had his routine. After standing at the rail and counting every head that returned to the Revenge, he would take stock of their new plunder, making note of what Ed or Bonnet claimed as their own and supervising as the rest of the crew sorted through the rest. Once personal claims were made, Izzy doled out orders to the crew on storing looted supplies and making repairs, before heading to the galley to check on anyone Roach needed to tend to. On his way back from the galley he would swing by his cabin, drop his weapons and check his leathers for areas that needed patching. It was usually about this point that the first sounds of fucking filtered out of the captains’ quarters. 

Today’s prize was a Dutch vessel laden down with goods headed for home across the Atlantic. It hadn’t been so valuable as to warrant an escort, but their manifest was lush enough that it included a small armed guard. Izzy wasn’t certain what the Dutch were teaching their swordsmen, but it seemed a fair bit dirtier than the Spanish and English. Izzy’s clothes were clinging to him with a rapidly cooling film of sweat and blood and he frowned at a smear on the front of his vest where one Dutchman had spat at him. He pulled it off and draped it over his lone wooden chair, noting a slash in the back. He rolled his shoulders, a little stiff from the cool come down of sweat after a hard fight. He felt a few new wounds, plus all the regular pains, but seemingly nothing urgent. He’d have some sewing to do by nightfall. He would’ve liked to give his leathers a wipe while the blood was still wet but a clatter and a moan from down the passageway had him resigned to scraping off the rusty stains another time. 

Returning to the main deck, Izzy saw that the perishables had been stashed elsewhere, hopefully where they were supposed to go. Izzy would find out later if the ball room started smelling like rotting fruit. There was still some loot strewn across the deck, mostly books and linens and a pair of red wooden side tables. 

Izzy had just opened his mouth to yell about it when Boodhari held up a hand at him.

“We know,” the quartermaster said, rolling his eyes. “Swede and I are taking them to the captains’ quarters. As soon as they’re… decent.” 

Izzy’s eye twitched at having so much loose cargo littering the deck, but there was little sense in moving it to the hold if Bonnet would just want it brought back up. He turned his attention instead to the real damage. The starboard stays for the foremast were lying tangled on the deck. A high shot from the Dutch had blown through the deadeye that anchored the stays to the yard. They’d been lucky not to have lost the top third of their mast, but now all the rigging needed to be refastened before the pressure from the port lines warped the wood. 

Frenchie and Feeney were picking their way through the ropes, looking for the top of the web. Izzy had crossed the deck, nearly slipping on some slightly bloody sheet music, just as Feeney found the shattered remains of the deadeye. He tugged it up, shifting the whole web of rigging and sending Frenchie onto his ass. Izzy pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache this repair was promising. 

Boodhari had followed at his shoulder and sighed at the sight of Frenchie trying to right himself from the knot of rigging. 

“How are we supposed to get this back up to the topsail if this is what we use to climb up there?” he asked, squinting up into the late afternoon sun. 

“How do you think it got up there to begin with?” Izzy snapped before biting his tongue. This was his new normal. He had to learn to live with this. He hissed out a breath between clenched teeth and tried again. “You’ve never rigged a ship before?” he asked, trying to keep a neutral tone. 

Boodhari flicked a look at him that told him he hadn’t been successful. “The ships I’ve worked on have all come… pre-assembled.” He shrugged. Izzy felt something pop in his jaw. 

“Right, then,” he said tightly, before turning to shout over his shoulder, “Mr. Buttons, you have the wheel. Keep her steady and steer into starboard until we’re rigged.”

“Aye, yous been heard,” the man called back, echoed by a cry from the gull on his head. 

“Pay attention, pups,” he shouted, high and loud. “I’m only going to do this once.”

As he climbed the port stays, a spool of cord held in his teeth, he noted that only a few crew members had gathered on deck to help. He hauled himself up on the top and saw that Pete was lying with his head in Spriggs lap, moaning about the bump on his head he’d gotten when Izzy had shoved him out of the way of a blade. His shoulders already burned from exertion. It would be a long day.

*

Night found Izzy in a familiar position, hunched in his bolted cabin, licking his wounds by candlelight. Needle in one hand and thread in his teeth, he sewed up the gash on his shoulder that had bled steadily all day. By the time a new deadeye held the starboard stays in proper alignment, the back of his shirt was soaked with blood and sweat. He’d learned early in his career that black hid blood well and dogs that whined were the dogs that got kicked. Still, it was a pain to stitch up your own back, and he wished, not for the first time, to have a comforting hand to help him. 

As the thread drug slowly through his skin, he imagined padding softly down the corridor, knocking on the captains’ door. He closed his eyes and saw the warm fire burning in the hearth. He felt Ed’s steady hands on his back, warm and solid as they put him back together, stroking him gently as reward. Another pair of hands found their way into his hair, scratching pleasantly across his scalp, washing away his headache with the smell of lavender and rose oil. 

Izzy’s eyes opened and found only his dark and empty cabin. He snapped the thread with a hard yank, hissing at the fizzle of pain that burned away any fanciful notions his stupid brain was tired enough to entertain. 

Dogs don’t sleep in posh beds under gentle hands. Dogs like him lick their wounds in the dark and guard their owners with teeth and talon. He was a guard dog. There are no pets allowed on the Revenge.

Jim wiped off their blades, rolling their shoulders in the honeyed-light of their small cabin. Oluwande had asked, nicely enough, that they stop wiping knife-blood on the bedsheets, so they had a rag for it now. They snorted wryly to themself - the compromises one made for love.

Blood squelched off their blade as they cleaned it, relaxing after a fight well fought. Sure, the ship took some damage, but Jim wasn’t really a ship person. They were running drinks at Spanish Jackie’s before this, and doing assassin stuff on the mainland before that. They knew their knots well enough, but they had no qualms with hanging out below deck while the repairs went on without them. 

Then the squawking began. They sighed, blowing hair out of their face. The calm never lasted for long. Jim’s grip on the cloth tightened and the next dagger broke through it. Izzy was always so loud on deck, bitching and wailing. Hell, even the ship seemed like it was creaking louder in protest. 

Working at Jackie’s, they heard stories about Blackbeard and Izzy Hands. They were the kind of men other pirates lied about meeting, the kind of men most men didn’t survive meeting. From the way Jackie’s husbands talked, Izzy Hands was the smoke to Blackbeard’s fire; ephemeral, inescapable death. Izzy Hands was the everywhere and nowhere killer – able to reach any man Blackbeard pointed to, impossible for anyone to catch or kill. He was supposed to be the greatest swordsman on the seas.

Instead, he was a small, angry man who lost a duel, a toe and anyone’s respect.

Jim had been so disappointed.

They counted their blades. Seven of nine left were bloodied in the last raid - they hadn’t even needed them all. They’d lost one or two over the side though, whenever some lucky bastard dodged in time. Izzy was always barking at them to throw low, but letting someone bleed out from the thigh didn’t have the same badass quality that a knife through the eye did.

Jim kept their crew safe. Oluwande kept the crew happy. The two of them were as good a first mate as any captain needed. What left was there for that grizzled old man to do? He was just a lame dog, limping after a master who didn’t need him anymore.

They were gathering for storytime that night when Roach saw the drops. A few dark spots on the deck, glimmering like little gems in the lantern light. He sat down and swiped his finger through one, bringing it up to taste. Blood.

He scanned his crewmates while he sucked the rest of the coppery sweetness off his finger. Blood wasn’t an uncommon sight on a ship, least of all to him, but he had stitched up everyone fine enough. Was it his best work? No – he saved that for pastries – but it was serviceable. A little better than serviceable now that Hands had taken to prowling around the galley. After every fight, Hands ended up sniffing around the injured, eyeing them up like a dog waiting for the slowest sheep to lie down. But Roach knew his work, no one should be dropping blood on deck.

Only person he hadn’t had his hands in was Hands himself, in fact. Always patched himself up, snapping and snarling when anyone got too close to him. Roach didn’t keep careful track of his supplies, not in the surgery at least, but he knew when Hands had come through to collect. Like a kicked dog that won’t take the scraps from your hand but will steal them away as soon as your back is turned.

He rubbed the rest of the blood away with the bottom of his sandal. If Hands needed help, he knew where to find it. But Roach was not about to offer it if he was just going to get bit. It was odd to even imagine him bleeding. Even odder to know that he actually tasted pretty sweet.

Lucius leaned heavily into Fang’s warm side, his long legs stretched out under their table, one foot propped up in Pete’s lap, the sole of his canvas shoe teasing at his inner thigh. He loved nights in at port, when he and his paramours could split from the group, squirrel themselves away in a dingy tavern and have a night of romance.

This one had cost him a little sleight of hand, a little manipulation and perhaps a little social currency, and for that reason Lucius was intent on enjoying it even more. From a utilitarian point of view, Lucius did nothing wrong.

He had forgotten to bribe the port master, yes, that was on him. But when the captains confronted him about it he had the convenient excuse that Izzy hadn’t given him the coin for it. Had Lucius been directed to collect the coin from Izzy before they began docking? Also yes. Had he avoided that specifically because Izzy was already pissed off because Buttons and Frenchie had purloined a bunch of rope to make ward knots to protect them from demons? Yes, obviously.

So, yes, Lucius could have solved the problem by doing his job. But instead, he focused his not insignificant energy on avoiding the problem. Which meant that his escape from the ship had to be somewhat choreographed such that the captains’ attention could be rapidly refocused to Izzy while Lucius used Pete and Fang’s puppy eyes as emotional lubricant to help him wiggle out of the situation with a sweet little “ohmygod I’m so sorry thank you byeeee!”

Did his choices leave Izzy in hot water, probably tasked with some light crimes and the night spent on the ship while everyone else had fun on land? Well, yes. But one rotten little man’s bad day was certainly worth it for Lucius to have Pete heavy-lidded across from him and Fang in fully giggles under his chin, right? Especially given that Izzy was probably going to have a terrible day anyway. Everyday for Izzy was a terrible day, it seemed. He was different now.

Lucius thought about having Izzy on the other side of him – his broody, cat shit energy acting as a foil to Fang’s sweetness and Pete’s extroversion. It wasn’t as nice a thought as it used to be. Izzy used to be a fight, a challenge. Now, Izzy skulked around the ship like a dog crawling on his belly, trying not to get kicked too hard. Between everything Lucius heard from inside the walls, and everything that went down between the captains and him, Izzy Hands was not the same man he used to be. Much more convenient for Lucius, as a shitty sailor, but far less compelling as a potential fling.

Pete called for another round and the bored looking barmaid brought it by without spilling on them, and that seems cause enough to celebrate.

“I would like to raise a toast, my delicious gentlemen!” Lucius proclaimed, a dignified hiccup acting as punctuation at the end. “Cheers to escaping the tyranny of Izzy Hands! May we never sail with his kind again!”

A hearty cheer came from Pete, a shyer ‘oh, come on now, boys,’ came from Fang, but he lifted his glass all the same. Lucius took a sip, no longer even wincing at the taste, and went well and truly boneless between his dears. He was in for a lovely night, and he had one sad little Izzy Hands to thank.

Izzy was seething. They’d left port in a murky fog, foul as his mood, and he’d spent far too long going through the hold, overseeing the record of everything they picked up and everything they couldn’t offload. He glared at the scribe in the dim lantern light.

“My job is to keep the manifest,” Spriggs explained, speaking to Izzy like he was slow. “That means I write down the labels on all the cargo we bring in.”

“You cannot put ‘4 barrels of wine’ in the manifest, we don’t have four barrels of wine.” Izzy tried for the same condescending tone, but his own frustration won out, rushing and harshening his words.

“Funny, I see one, two, three, oh wow, four barrels, that all say ‘wine’ right on the side!”

“I know what it fucking says, I can fucking read.” He jabbed a finger at the barrel they’d been fighting over for the last quarter hour. “They just reused the barrel.”

“How do you know that?” Spriggs retorted, primly uncrossing and recrossing his ankles from his perch on a crate of linens. “Did you see them barrel it? Did you go to the vineyard?”

“It’s fucking vinegar,” Izzy insisted again. “You can fucking smell it! Any twat with a fucking nose can tell it’s fucking vinegar.”

“Maybe it’s just very bad wine,” the scribe said, lips pinched up in a bitchy moue.

“Just write down three barrels wine, one barrel vinegar,” he said through gritted teeth. “That way, the log matches the load.”

“Mmmkay, sure, let’s say I do that,” Spriggs said, making a show of tapping the feather of the quill against the side of his head. “But then what happens when someone checks the log against the labels, and sees that there are actually four barrels of wine?”

“There aren’t four barrels of wine,” Izzy hissed.

“It says ‘wine’ right there,” Spriggs quipped, all faked innocence. “Shouldn’t the log match the labels?”

Izzy covered his face with his hands and took a moment to scream into his palms. When he lowered them again, he could see Spriggs smirking at him. He looked like one of those brats that throws rocks at chained dogs just to get them to bark, laughing at the beasts from just out of reach.

Just as Izzy took a breath to bark something beastly indeed, he heard a thud-bump-bump against the hull. He tilted his head; his hearing was shit in the left ear. He heard it again. It registered the moment before voices topside raised the alarm.

“Hooks on portside!”

“Captains! We’ve got company!”

“What’s that?” Spriggs asked, voice going high.

“Grappling hooks,” Izzy bit out harshly as another thud landed above them. “We’re being boarded.”

Izzy rushed to the ladder and scrambled up. He popped up out of the hold, hand immediately finding his sword where he’d left it. It was already strapped in its rightful place by the time his foot hit the first rung to the gun deck. Here he could hear the shouting, the footfalls of strangers jumping their rails and landing on their deck. Invading. A flush of activated rage pulled at his shoulders, straightening his spine as it ushered him forward into the fight.

He could see the light of the main deck when a thin, whining sound from just behind told him that Spriggs was right on his heels. He turned and planted a hand in the lad’s chest, absorbing his considerable momentum and pushing him back. If he’d lived a different life, the boy could’ve made for a good fighter – tall and solid with a long reach – but in this fight, he would just be a big target.

“Get back down,” Izzy hissed. Unfamiliar voices filled the air on the other side of the bulkhead; Izzy guessed at least nine. “You’re shit with a blade.”

“That’s very rude,” Spriggs said, sweat already beading on his creased brow.

“Make yourself useful,” Izzy continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Get to the galley, get needles and start water boiling.” The lad nodded with a wordless babble, tripping over his feet as he turned and did, for once, as he was told.

Izzy stopped at the edge of the bulkhead, sticking to the shadow while his old eyes adjusted, darting quickly to take in the scene. Strange men were spread out along both the rails, their captain front and center, sizing up Ed on the main deck. From the corner of his eye he saw Bonnet hustle down the stairs from the quarterdeck and stride with affected confidence to Ed’s side.

“Now, now, gentlemen,” Bonnet crowed. “If everyone could lower their weapons, I’m sure we can talk this out.”

Izzy bit down on a sigh, eyeing the unfriendlies. There were at least twenty or so pirates. Some looked seasoned and scarred, others fresh and frightened. The crew of the Revenge were dotted amongst them, standing out in pops of color against a significantly grungier crowd. They were outnumbered, but he’d chewed his way through worse. Still, Izzy would need surprise on his side to even the odds. He stuck to the bulkhead, melting unnoticed into the dark of the doorway.

“Aye,” Ed said with a low chuckle. “I reckon you boys have made a mistake.”

With all eyes glued to Ed, Izzy untucked his shirt at the small of his back, freeing up access to the twin daggers he kept there.

“No mistake here, b’ys,” their captain said, making a show of taking his hand off the hilt of his sword and hooking his thumbs in the front of his trousers. “Yous got a good-looking ship, with not near enough men to keep her.” Privately, Izzy agreed. But, he supposed, that’s what he was here for.

Ed clucked his tongue, looking like he’d sat down to a game of cards with aces stashed in his velvet sleeves.

“Sorry fellas,” he said, arms out wide, voice ringing warmly. “But you’ve stumbled onto one of Blackbeard’s ships.” Izzy didn’t have to see his face to know that his smile was all teeth. “And I, myself, am motherfucking Blackbeard.”

In years past, this was the moment when swords and piss hit the deck. Men ran for their lives, and begged for them when they weren’t fast enough. On this day, Izzy’s hackles rose as not a single blade wavered.

“That’s right,” the stranger said easily, rocking his weight back onto his heel. It was very casual, off-putting. Intentional. He could see Ed’s shoulders tightening, his jaw ticking at the insult. Ed’s temperament had been steady lately, but even with Bonnet at his side he was still susceptible to fast fits of rage.

“And I am the Gentleman Pirate,” Bonnet declared, doing nothing to dispel the unease air that had settled on deck.

“See, thing is,” the stranger continued, unperturbed. “No one is much afraid of Blackbeard anymore. Name just don’t carry the same weight it used to.” He spat on the deck and Izzy bared his teeth at the sting of truth in his words. He’d told the captains the same thing, told Ed the same thing dozens of times over in the last decade. Ed had always dismissed him. Hearing it, now, from some cocky stranger Ed growled, shifting his weight like he was ready to pounce. Bonnet stopped him, a restraining hand on his chest, but it didn’t erase the embarrassed fury from Ed’s posture.

“Perhaps there is a new name on the seas,” Bonnet answered boldly, spinning in a circle, addressing their invaders as if they were an audience. “A name for the history books, written in ink not yet dry, but –”

“No teeth,” the captain shouted over him, supported by jeers from his crew. “Everyone on the sea knows that Edward Teach has gone soft. And the Genital Pirate is a joke.”

 Ed’s face was red with rage now. Izzy drew his sword slowly, hushing the hiss of the metal with one gloved finger on the blade.

“I will rip out your guts and feed them to dogs,” he growled, drawing his sword.

“We’ve heard a rumor about your dog, actually.” The stranger stalked closer to the captains, hand back on his weapon, a tight and cruel smile on his face. “Blackbeard can lay down and die, but if his Grimm is still guarding the grave, well then that ship still had bite to her.” He was nearly Ed’s height, shoulders as broad as Bonnet’s, and enough drama to match them both. “We heard you had Izzy Hands still at your heels and you put him down.” The words sent a shiver down Izzy’s back and he swallowed a growl. “Without your mad dog to protect you, this ship is as good as mine.”

It was quiet for a moment, the captain grinning like he’d just dealt a killing blow. Izzy watched Ed’s shoulders, softening for a minute in confusion before his anger crystalized into confident cruelty.

Ed barked out a laugh, and the captain’s smile wavered.

“Oh, you sorry, dumb cunts” Ed said, dropping his sword arm and shaking his head. “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed,” he drawled, before tucking two fingers in his mouth and whistling high and clear – a call to action.

Izzy’s body jerked into motion, coils springing and launching him blades-first out of his hiding place. He sliced through the meat of the thigh closest to him, spinning out of the way of a blind swing and cutting a throat while he did it. Two more steps starboard and he came to a halt with his sword buried in a pirate’s belly. A fierce pride gleamed on his teeth as he watched the shock and surprise wash over this captain’s face. He held his eye as he pulled his blade out, letting the man’s crewmember slump wetly to the deck.

He watched the effect of his presence roll over the unfortunate raiders. Now, this is what he was used to.

Men stepped back. The tips of their swords shook like grass in the dunes. Faces ran pale as ghosts, throats leapt with nervous swallows.

The whole of the Revenge seemed to hold its breath.

Until the man standing at the captain’s flank dropped his sword with a clatter, sprinted to the rail, and dove into the sea.

“A bit dramatic, wouldn’t you say?” Bonnet said lowly, to Ed out of the corner of his mouth. Ed turned a grin at him, all bright teeth.

“Izzy Fucking Hands,” the stranger breathed, his face drained of swagger. He gulped, realizing the severity of his situation, his crew all now shifting with fear. He drew his sword with a shaking hand and pointed toward the splashing off the starboard side. “That wet weasel of a first mate told me not two days back that some soft-looking mollyboy was telling tales, raising a glass to finally being free of Izzy Hands.” Izzy sighed. He’d deal with Lucius later.

Ed laughed again.

“That makes this such an embarrassing way to die,” he said darkly.

The captain looked around at the crew of the Revenge with the eyes of a cornered animal, sweat beading on his forehead, hands flexing around his sword. His crew looked similarly desperate, all of them sporting the pale faces of men preparing to fight to the death.

“I’ve got the numbers,” he said.

“I’ve got Israel fucking Hands.”

Izzy bared his teeth as he and Ed attacked in perfect synchrony, Ed toward the captain, Izzy spinning to the pirate directly at his back, like two sides of the same bloodied coin.

The captain released a battle cry of the truly desperate, and there was a collective roar from the men as the rains of chaos opened onto the deck of the Revenge.

“Gentlemen!” Bonnet shrieked but went unheeded as the enemy crew lurched into motion. Izzy was already pulling his sword out of the nearest man’s chest before Bonnet finished his cry, spinning on his good foot to catch another across the forearm as he parried a wild strike. “Surely we can come to an agreement here!”

“Greenhorns,” the captain cried over the ringing of his and Ed’s blades crossing, “Cut your teeth on this worthless crew!” He was a decent swordsman, Izzy noticed, always keeping an eye on Ed, even as he was lurching out of the way of an axe. The man deflected a jab from Ed and paced forward. “Everyone else, on Hands if you want to live,” he shouted, aiming a strike at Ed’s knuckles to open enough space to point with his sword at Izzy, “Whoever brings me that dog’s hide will be my new first mate!”

Izzy took stock. Swede was ducked down into his barrel, Feeney hadn’t grabbed his sword and was throwing cannonballs, Jim landed one knife in a skull but lost the next overboard. At least nine sun-baked and scar-hardened pirates were spreading out to close Izzy in a loose circle, eyes dark and wide with the look of desperate men ready to kill or die.

He grit his teeth, hackles raised. This was sure to take a few years off his life.

Stede had never seen battle quite like this. They’d raided, they’d pillaged, they’d done their fair share of swashbuckling – but never had he seen anything quite as brutal as the way an entire pirate crew threw themselves at Izzy.

Like lions in the coliseum, set out with the express purpose of ripping one man apart, they flew at him with bloodthirsty intent. He tried to help, leaping in front of a man with a mighty cry of ‘en garde, you mangey cur’ but the man simply shoved him aside and barreled forward, blade raised to fall on Izzy’s back. Izzy feinted at the right moment, spinning his sword in his grip to thrust backwards into the man’s middle, whipping out with a thin arc of blood as he ducked back into another volley.

“A little help!” came a shrill cry from Black Pete at the bow, swinging wildly at a terribly scary-looking pair of teenagers. He made to rush over to him, to aid his crew, to lead them to victory.

Two steps and he felt the hot sting of blood on his jaw. He jerked his head to see a dead man’s face staring right at him, his sword arm falling lifelessly down, the tip of a dagger poking out of his throat. Stede shrieked when he fell forward, his shoes clacking as he skittered backwards.

“Careful, Bonnet.” Izzy had his sword arm up, clashing against two men’s swords, deflecting them into each other, his other arm still extended from his throw. Stede gulped, heart truly racing in fear as Izzy did not have even a spare millisecond to spend on sending him a nasty glare, too busy fighting off attacks and saving his captain as well.

Stede realized with complicated bolt of emotion that this horribly presumptive captain had been right – it was taking his entire crew’s attention to deal with just the youngest subset of these knavish raiders, leaving more than half of them to attack Izzy together. And more still, Izzy was taking them to heel masterfully.

He’d known Izzy was a killer. The man had never tried to dissuade anyone of his capacity for violence and he was known as the black Grimm of the seas, leading souls to hell should they ever cross Blackbeard’s path. But as Stede stood in reverent shock, watching the whirl of black and blades that was Izzy Hands at work, he saw it all entirely new.

He noticed the rapid flicker of his eyes, his attention not on mindless hacking, but everywhere at once, seeing strikes before they began, keeping track of all his crew as well as all of his attackers, constantly vigilant. It struck him as a dance, an exhausting one that had Izzy’s chest heaving with the breaths, his neck blushing red, beading with sweat.

Izzy ducked under a sweeping sword, bending in half and swiping through an ankle, rising in the same wave of movement to defend against the next attack. He was a perfect economy of motion, not letting any momentum go to waste, using it to keep him constantly at the edge of every blade while he picked away at his enemies.

Stede had never before appreciated the exact precision of his brutality, the beauty barely contained in his power. Now he didn’t think he could ever forget the diamond knife that was Izzy’s focused gaze, especially when it landed on him.

“Stick to Ed,” Izzy barked. His eyes glinted like flint, ready to spark the next time two swords kissed. A man charged at him from behind and before Stede could even voice a warning Izzy had his sword flipped in his hand, sticking out behind him, skewering the man as he ran straight onto it. “Now,” he growled at Stede, teeth bared and gnashing, and reluctantly, Stede went.

Crossing the deck to guard the back of his love, he couldn’t help the energized rush buzzing steadily under his skin. His ship was home to the deadliest men on the seas. And they would fight and kill to keep him safe and happy. Even with a dozen enemies still razing his ship, he had never felt better protected.

Fire and righteous joy surged through Ed as he jabbed and swiped at this pretender. He always ran hot during a raid, the show and flex of it all burning just under his skin. But this was different – this was a statement, a claim. On the legacy of Blackbeard and the men who built him. His Izzy.

Ed bit a nasty smile around the way the man’s words had tasted far too similar to the grit and grime of greasepaint on his lips. The way he talked about taking Izzy, separating them, had an itch crawling under Ed’s skin that he hadn’t felt since Stede had come home. Blood blossomed in his mouth as he caught the cunt’s elbow to the jaw. He growled, hunkering down to shove him back with a shoulder to the gut and a beastly cry.

He wouldn’t lose Izzy. Izzy wouldn’t be going anywhere. Izzy went where he was ordered. Better, Izzy didn’t need orders, Izzy just knew what Ed needed, always right at his heel, ready to protect, to fetch, to roll over and whine.

And there was the joy of it. Ed called and Izzy came. A single well-timed whistle sent two men to the grave and another overboard. Izzy was a fucking terror and he was his. His to command, to deploy, to enjoy, and to hold against the throats of anyone stupid enough to challenge him.

Any sailor on the sea would know Izzy’s worth. Aside from the one’s he currently sailed with. It is with that value that Ed has bought his pseudo-retirement. How else could he sail with so few, raid so infrequently, selling and trading even less? It was Izzy’s dedication – Izzy’s vicious efficiency – that kept the Revenge afloat, and Ed lazing in bliss within her.

No one else could do this with Iz – No one else could have this with Izzy. No one knew him like Ed did. Inside and out. Ed knew everything Izzy was going to do, because Izzy did whatever Ed wanted or need him to.

And this obnoxious fuck was going to try to take him? This little spit of a man thought he could separate Ed from Izzy like they weren’t the heart and soul of Blackbeard, like they didn’t make one person together in two bodies.

The audacity is what kept Ed toying with the man; that, and the desire to share it with Stede. He wanted to share everything with Stede and the most precious thing he had in this entire world was Izzy. He wanted to humiliate this pretender of a captain together, defend their first mate together. The cunty captain was good enough with a sword to keep him busy. Ed kept him locked in the fight, drawing it out, giving him ground and clawing it back. He stalled, waiting for Stede to catch up, to pop up, bright like the sun, at his side, striking out with hot and burning solar flares.

 And then there he was, a teal-spun daydream slashing steel alongside him, a blood-mist decorating one half of his smiling face.

“Hello, darling love,” he greeted easily, swiping his blade at the fuck’s knees, shooting low under his guard like Izzy had taught him.

“Good of you to join me,” he teased, taking the bastard’s moment of distraction to show off a bit, flicking his hat back off his head with the tip of his sword, winking at Stede as he did so.

“Sorry for the delay,” Stede said sweetly, tongue pined between his teeth in concentration as he practiced his steps, “But I had a hard time drawing myself away from our remarkable first mate.”

“A fuckin’ vision, isn’t he?” Ed’s smile was all hungry teeth, and when he turned to look at his partner’s face, he wanted to taste the flecks of blood drying on his skin.

“He’s brilliant,” Stede panted, his cheeks dewy from exertion as he and Ed passed the raiding captain’s sword between themselves. “How will we know if he needs help?”

“He’s Izzy Hands,” Ed said biting every word with relish, backing their raiding captain up the bowsprit with his poet at his side, his soldier at his back. “He’s un-fucking-touchable.”

Swipe to the forehead, blind with blood, buy some time.

Izzy dropped hard to one knee, blunt pain feeling very far away as he ducks under a pirate’s loose guard, belly opening up under his blade.

Next fucker, already stabbed chest, stomach, monster was still standing. Kick to the chest, sends him stumbling back out of range. Someone else finish him.

Izzy moved to stand, needing to keep moving. His thigh was ripped open on one side from darting between an ancient seadog with a sawtooth blade and Boodhari’s turned back.  So far he’d kept eyes on the whole crew, all of them still standing, picking off attackers as they shot their shot. But he was starting to tire, the bright sear of pain making him slow, too slow.

Kicking a baton up out of the rail, Izzy tossed it into the back of the head of a skinny, limp-haired kid creeping too close to Swede’s barrel. It left him too close to the side, less room to maneuver, and a falling blade dug into the meat of his shoulder before he can dodge it. A strangled groan broke out from behind his gritted teeth and he swung his fist into a pirate’s head. Blood burst from his knuckles and the man’s mouth. Izzy slashed across his chest before he could recover.

Make space, feint, dive. Dagger on the deck, six feet.

He needed to stay on his toes, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet so he could keep a fluid defense from all directions. He had a second to draw in a blood-tinged breath as the next two attackers sized him up, stepping over their fallen crewmembers. Izzy couldn’t wait, needing the time to kick a poorly secured barrel, sending it rolling into the knees of the kid pining a squalling Pete to the port rail. Freed, he sent the pirate over into the water.

Izzy was losing track of how many were left. Ed was toying with the invading captain, untouched and glory-filled, Stede by his side, grinning like fools. New attackers advanced and Izzy caught the first swing with a graceless, backhanded block. The impact was jarring, making the hot ball of pain that was his shoulder shudder.

Doesn’t matter, sweep broad, go for knees, make space, sidestep to starboard.

Izzy grunted with effort as he sawed through one man’s inner thigh. He pulled back fast, knowing without needing to see that a cutlass was coming for the side of his head. He twisted out of its path, slamming his forehead into the nose of the man holding it. He’d bleed out before he could wake up.

Turning again, he lunged for another pirate, catching him in the arm when he went to wipe blood out of his eyes. Hissing, he dropped his sword. Blood squelched in leather as Izzy planted his foot in his chest, pushing him back, to fall over one of Feeney’s loose cannonballs. Izzy would need to double back unless someone else finished him off, because the whistle of steel through the air forced Izzy to move again.

Still more, can’t stop, move or die.

Two more steps and he made it to the dropped dagger. He picked it up, standing up fast enough that his vision blurred, greying at the edges as he labored to breathe. His hand recognized the shape and weight of the blade as one of his, unconscious calculations letting up send it up through a pirate’s jaw, thudding dully into his skull.

A pained grunt to his left had the blade out and leaving his hand before his eyes could even focus. Jimenez grabbed the knife out of the new corpse’s back, glaring through their hair at Izzy.

“I don’t need your help,” they shouted with a Spanish curse.

Izzy didn’t waste breath on a reply; he didn’t have enough to spare. A sharp bite to his low back demanded his attention, and he turned to meet a brass-studded fist with his cheekbone. Head ringing, he stumbled, back connecting with the chest of another pirate. He just barely had the time to spill to the side, missing the axe by millimeters, close enough to feel the vibration when it landed in the other man’s sternum.

With not enough room to dodge, the axeman took Izzy down to the deck when he skewered him through his thick side. The heavy weight against his wounded thigh had Izzy biting back a shout as he tried to pull free. His left hand slipped on the deck, and he looked to find his whole arm dark with blood, still oozing from his shoulder. He wrenched himself away, breathing hard, blinking away sweat and blurriness.  

Ed was still tangling with the captain, shouting something likely clever and cutting as they danced. Ivan and Fang were covering the retreat of Boodhari as he pulled a dazed-looking Frenchie below deck. Roach screamed as he chased a man around the capstan with a cleaver and a fork. The lid was closed on the Swede’s barrel again.

Move or die move or die move or die

The deck seemed to be pitching wildly, sky growing dark even though it was daytime. Izzy needed to stand up. There was a body behind him. His shoulder screamed with pain when he grabbed a hold of it, but it helped him get his weigh underneath him again.

Stand up, get up, need to move, can’t feel the leg but know it’s there, need to stand up.

By the time he made it to his feet, blinking away pain and fog, Bonnet was pushing the enemy captain off the bowsprit and the only living people remaining on deck were the ones supposed to be here. A cheer rose up from the crew, Ed and Bonnet loudest amongst them.

Izzy blinked again. Suddenly, Spriggs was on deck and weapons had disappeared from most people’s hands.  

Izzy shook his head, wincing at the wave of pain it caused. He ran his tongue over his teeth. None missing. Letting his sword fall to the deck, he looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers into fists. All ten moved when he wanted them to. Shoulder must be fine. He did the same thing with his toes. The wet slosh in his boots was concerning, but all nine toes moved, so the leg couldn’t be too bad.

He blinked again, and this time when he looked up some of the crew had moved a bit closer to him, were watching him. Bonnet’s mouth was saying something.

Izzy shook his head, winced, and asked “Captain?”

“Izzy, are you alright over there?” Bonnet called. Izzy clenched his teeth against the pain as he nodded his head. He was fine. He made to approach his captains – there was no need for them to shout across the deck – but he stumbled over the body in front of him. He couldn’t seem to get his torn leg to cooperate enough to clear the shoulders.

He looked around. He was surrounded by corpses.

Bodies were staining the boards between them, dead men in all directions, a bloody circle over twenty feet wide.

His captain called for him again. He looked across his splatter of carnage and flinched when he saw their faces. Faces of horror, faces of fear. Faces a monster sees.

Jimenez was looking at him with pursed lips, glancing from him and back to the bodies, again and again. Roach stared with unblinking eyes and parted lips, like Izzy was capable of more destruction than any surgeon could fix, and perhaps that was true. Spriggs was pinched with concern and disgust, and Bonnet… Bonnet was staring at Izzy with a look of such abject sadness, as if pained to know a creature such as Izzy existed.

It hurt, their fear. It hurt to know that his best skill was such a monstrous one.

Worst of all was Ed. While the others couldn’t look away from the animal carnage he had wrought, Ed watched Bonnet, his wild hair not covering the guilt on his brow. That pain was duller, deeper, rooted in years and years of licking away blood so Ed would not have to see it.

Everything hurt, but he was good at swallowing pain. Good at biting back the whine.

So that’s what he did. He was resigned to his role. There were no pets on a ship and he was a dog who only knew how to bite.

“Izzy, are you okay?” Bonnet asked, approaching him slowly, like you would a wild animal. His shoes looked so out of place as he picked his way through the viscera.

“Oh my gourd, that’s a lot of blood,” Spriggs breathed. “Are there chunks missing?

“I don’t even know how he’s standing,” he muttered in response.

“’M counting at least a dozen,” Jimenez added to their whispered conversation. Izzy didn’t hear the rest, one of his captain’s now in front of him, reaching out with a shaking hand. A hand that didn’t touch him, hovering in the air just out of reach.

“Izzy,” he breathed, that horribly sad look on his face.

“Captain,” Izzy answered, because he was a good dog who came when he was called.

“Izzy, what you just did… I can’t even describe…” Bonnet said, trailing off when he finally dropped just his fingertips against Izzy’s torn shirt. He removed them immediately, the pads of every finger reddened with blood. “But I think you’re very hurt.”

“Few stitches,” Izzy acknowledged, setting his gaze at a middle distance, not wanting to look at his face, not willing to look away, chin up and head held high. “I’ll be fine.”

“Let’s have Roach look at you then, shall we?” Bonnet said, his pink lip pinned between his teeth.

“Surgeon should see to the crew first,” Izzy answered by rote.

“Lucky for you then, as you are part of the crew,” Bonnet said distractedly, hands fluttering around Izzy uneasily. He turned back to look at Ed with a furrowed brow and a beseeching look. “I can’t even tell where it’s safe to touch him.”

That had Izzy rearing back with a snarl.

“What, Bonnet? Worried I’ll bite?” he snapped. He glared into Bonnet’s widening eyes, daring him to call him dangerous, when dangerous is exactly what they needed of him.

“No, no, my dear,” he said in a rush, “I’m worried I’ll hurt you. There’s just…” he trailed off, looking him up and down before bringing those painfully bright eyes back to his. “There’s just so much blood.”

Izzy snorted, closing his eyes against the glare of the sun, against the horror on his face.

“You ever hear of a dog going to the surgeon?” he heard himself ask. “Dogs fight to the death, or dogs get put down.” He opened his eyes and let his gaze find Ed’s over Bonnet’s shoulder. “I can still fight.”

He expected a nod, a shrug, at most a happy smirk. He expected to be allowed to go about his work.

He did not expect the utterly lost look Ed was giving him.

He did not expect to be crushed to a finely clothed chest, Bonnet’s slightly sweaty and shaking arms wrapping around him to pull him close, lighting up his whole battered body in agitated pain.

And he certainly did not expect that there would be a knife still lodged in his back.

But, at least when Bonnet’s tragic embrace pulled it suddenly free, he didn’t have to worry about whether or not he wanted to hug back.

No one had boarded the Revenge without permission since Blackbeard first freed them from the Spanish. Jim didn’t like being boarded. It gave the other crew the upper hand, especially when outnumbered. ‘Outnumbered’ felt like an understatement to Jim, as they worked with some of the crew to loot the bodies and toss them overboard. The pile of new weapons was stacking up high, so many of them dirtied with blood.

Jim didn’t consider themself a hero. They were never one to put their neck on the line for someone else – everyone was on their own in this life, no use getting precious about it. People looked out for themselves and their own, and Jim had never had anyone before. And now they had this fucked up annoying crew, and Jim realized that maybe the reason their hands were shaking as they emptied pockets was because they’d been scared. Scared to lose any of this idiots, because they were their idiots.

Maybe Oluwande was making them soft.

The idea made Jim grimace at themself. They weren’t going soft, and they didn’t get scared.

Actually, Jim decided, kicking a body over the rail with a little extra oomph, they just didn’t like being dismissed. That’s right, Jim didn’t like the way that scabby fucking captain looked at their crew and sent a handful of whelps, not even wet behind the ears, to hold them off. What, just because they didn’t want to sweat their proverbial balls off in leather, they weren’t a threat? They weren’t scared, they were insulted!

Yes, it was the dismissal that had Jim fighting harder, more desperately, than they would on a normal raid. They nodded to themself, even as they frowned at the deck – the deck that was still littered with bodies and pools of blood underneath them. The captains had frog-marched Izzy down to the galley, after Captain Bonnet stopped shrieking apologies over the new fount of blood spurting from the first mate. Jim stood in that puddle now, frowning at the number of dead and dying men Izzy had left behind.

There were footprints leading in and out of pools of blood, crossing the deck with ragged efficiency. Tracing them, Jim tried to imagine the steps, the dance of damnation that Izzy had beat out against the boards. The fight hadn’t even lasted that long. The sun was in the same wedge of sky. Twenty minutes, maybe, and Jim read the record of Izzy crossing rail to rail and back. It didn’t make sense. All those men coming after him and him alone, why didn’t the dog just pick a corner and defend it?

“Oi, yours or Izzy’s?” Ivan called from the forward mast, holding up a dagger that glowed ruby when the sun hit the blade.

“I don’t know, man,” they said exasperatedly. They looked at the daggers they’d collected so far, saw that one of them had a spade carved on the bottom. “Grab everything. We’ll figure it out later.”

At the time, Jim had felt overwhelmingly busy. Frenchie and the Swede were almost always useless in fights, too uncoordinated and scared, respectively, to be anything but liabilities. Roach always got distracted with playing the long game of psychological warfare, choosing a target and chasing them wildly, never willing to kill anyone without having some fun first. Oluwande was great defense, but he was slow on the attack, better for guarding doors than running anyone down. Buttons did whatever Buttons does, usually staying at the helm and biting anyone who came too close. Pete tried his best, but went down crying after a single blow. So even if they were evenly matched for numbers, Jim worked with the men from the Anne to keep everyone alive.

They looked back down at the bloody record on the deck. Fourteen, fifteen bodies dropped here alone – the footsteps taking him from rail to rail – Izzy never stopped protecting them. Jim knew Izzy had spared them some stiches, throwing a blade to save them from what might’ve been a nasty blow. Jim scowled, something a little shameful curling in their stomach. Izzy had killed more people today than they had in their career, and not just to save his own life. Jim could’ve taken half this number with their daggers, maybe more if they actually practiced with the sword. But they would’ve picked a corner to defend and stayed there. They wouldn’t’ve been able to watch anyone else’s back. They might’ve survived, but they would have only been saving themself.

Looking at the spread of bodies around them, a voice in the back of their head kept whispering that a lot of them would be dead without Izzy Hands.

One moment, Roach was having a great time hacking some blond twat to pieces, one limb at a time, and the next thing he knows the captains are rushing him below to patch together a man who was more pieces than whole.

Darting into the galley, Roach was relieved to see that someone had already thought to boil some water, one pot cooling in the tub while another bubbled over the fire. He dunked his hands in the one that was still steaming gently, grabbing the rag and pricking himself on a handful of needles waiting for him at the bottom. He nodded approvingly, wiping down his hands and forearms while he turned to assess his patient.

Roach generally trusted Hands to come to him if he needed a surgeon’s hand after a brawl. He knew better now.

Roach saw his face on the deck and recognized it. Not as a stray dog who would slink off to lick his wounds. No, what Roach saw was the face of a man who didn’t know retreat. He wouldn’t stop until he was called to heel.

Izzy was a protector. Loyalty was his vocation, and he took his job seriously.

Time to get to work, then.

Hands blinked slowly and bled sluggishly, a captain on either side of him, talking over each other. It was clear that Hands wouldn’t be here if it weren’t an order. It was clear that Izzy Hands had never expected to receive help.

He dunked the rag again, once in the boiling, once in the warm, and stepped forward to start on the man’s face. At first touch, he flinched back, reflexive snarl pulling at his split lip, but Roach grabbed the back of his head with a steady hand, pressing the rag against his face firmly. Roach held his gaze and held perfectly still for the three long seconds it took Hands to unclench, the muscles in the back of his neck relaxing under his hand. Roached nodded with professional approval; he’d certainly had worse patients.

Hands let him clear his face of blood and sweat, let him peer into his eyes and feel across his skull. His bell had been rung but hadn’t cracked. Good.

“Shirt,” he directed, cutting through whatever the captains had been saying. Captain Bonnet took a half step away, out of polite instinct, but came immediately back to flutter anxious hands over the first mate as Captain Teach brusquely pulled aside leather and cotton.

“I gotcha, mate, no worries,” he said, presumably to Hands, not waiting for acknowledgement from the man. “Always so many buttons with this one,” he said absently to Captain Bonnet, who seemed to only get more concerned at the amount of red covering his skin. Captain Teach’s fingers seemed to already know their way around the buttons and straps that kept Izzy so tightly bound, Roach noted as he threaded a needle. “Any knives left in here, Iz?” He slid his hands around his waist, coming away wet and bloodied. “Guess you used them all, huh?” Hands didn’t answer aside from a pained grunt.

Captain Teach pulled the vest and shirt from his shoulders and reached around him again, unbuckling a hidden sort of holster from around his waist, letting Captain Bonnet carefully pick apart the ties and buttons at the first mate’s elbows and wrists.

“’M sure Jim’ll track ‘em down for you,” Captain Teach continued, blithely. “Yep, no worries there, Izdog, we’ll get them.” Roached noticed that Captain Teach was looking more at Captain Bonnet than Hands. Captain Bonnet had gone pale at seeing the first mate’s wounds more clearly. There was a deep groove carved into the tasty part of the shoulder and shallow swipes taken out of his sides. Roach pressed carefully against his good shoulder, leaning him forward so he could check over his back. A nasty hole tore him just above the hip.

Then there were the sutures, piecing together chunks of his skin. Sutures Roach hadn’t put there. They weren’t pretty, but they weren’t hot or raised either.

“You do good work, Hands,” Roach murmured to his patient, flicking his gaze over the vast array of storied scars. Many, if not all of them looked self-stitched. “But you won’t be able to reach everything here, not with this shoulder,” he said, stepping away to grab the hot water. The first mate met his eye as he approached again. “Let me help. It’s my job.” He waited for the first mate’s nod before he started flushing the wound in the shoulder, working top to bottom.

There was a lot of blood. He’d need more water.

There was a weird vibe on the deck that night. They’d swabbed three or four times to get the blood out of the boards. Lucius was fairly certain they’d all silently agreed to ignore the fact that the wood was a few shades darker now.

The captains were inside with Roach and Izzy. It had been a while. Ordinarily, the crew would be arguing over who would have to go see when Roach would have dinner ready. But after today’s fight, the crew was unusually quiet, aside from Jim and Oluwande had the helm, heads bent together intently.

“Crazy day today, right?” Lucius began when the weight of not talking about it grew too heavy.

“It was pretty scary,” the Swede agreed.

“Kinda got me thinking,” Pete said slowly, “that, you know, Izzy might be kinda scary.”

Collective nods and murmurs indicated agreement.

“I’ll be honest,” said John, “I’ve never really been ignored like that. They weren’t even worried about me. They just kept going for Izzy.”

“Izzy told me to stay below deck,” Lucius admitted, picking at the edge of his scarf, watching it fray. He’d heard the fighting, the screams, not knowing who was hurt, who was winning. It had felt like being it in the walls again. Helpless. He looked back up at the crew around him. “I came up when it was over and he was trying to stand up. He had a knife in his back and everything and he just wouldn’t stay down.”

“Reckon he wouldn’t have stopped ‘fore his heart did,” Buttons added from his place at the rail, back to the group, watching Olivia go for a dip over the side.

“He killed one of mine, too,” Jim called, voice always brusque. They scoffed at themself. “I yelled at him for it.” They looked away and shrugged. “Probably saved my life though.”

“Same for me,” Pete offered, squeezing his hand around Lucius’ knee. “I had him on the ropes, but Izzy helped me finish him off.”

“I’m pretty sure Izzy has saved all of our lives,” Lucius said. It was quiet for a moment. “Not just today,” he continued, chewing his lip nervously. “Like, doesn’t it feel like he stops at least one of us from dying every time we step off the ship?”

“Izzy doesn’t like crew turnover,” Fang added from Lucius’s other side. “Says it takes less work to keep us alive than train a new greenhorn from scratch.” He looked around at the crew of the Revenge. “Well, he used to say that. Before…”

“Before you met us,” Lucius finished wryly. Fang smiled apologetically.

Lucius was under no delusions about their prowess as pirates. There was a reason they were all looking for work when some random man showed up with a ship and a dream.

“Do you think we’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to Izzy?” Frenchie asked, chewing at the end of his scarf.

“He got attacked by a shark once,” Ivan said. Then he inclined his head. “But yeah, you’re probably worse.”

“Should we, like, do something about that?” Lucius pulled his arms in tight, curling around the uncomfy squiggle of guilt in his belly.

Izzy had almost died today. Shouldn’t they feel bad about that? Lucius did.

He thought about the steady hand with which Izzy stopped him from joining the fray. Izzy’s hand had pressed right in the center of his chest, and while Lucius’ heart felt like it was about to pound through his ribs from fear, Izzy was calm and it had made him feel better.

With a stunning clarity Lucius realized that he trusted Izzy. He trusted Izzy to keep him alive. Seeing him on the deck today, swaying and dazed but still on his feet in a field of corpses, Lucius also realized that he didn’t trust Izzy to keep himself alive. Not without help.

Izzy woke up to sun on his face and enjoyed three seconds of peace.

Then he opened his eyes into a suspicious squint. He didn’t have a porthole in his cabin. And he was only wearing smalls.

The pain was a clue, though. His muscles burned and his bones ached, and not just from sleeping on a wood floor.

Wooden table, actually, he learned as he pushes himself up to seated with a tight-lipped groan.

“Hey, Iz.” Ed was lying on the long bench beside the galley table, feet on the ground either side of the seat, hands crossed over his belly. He didn’t look like he’d been sleeping. More like he’d been staring at the ceiling, waiting for Izzy to wake. He didn’t want to think about that.

Izzy gave him a grunt as he sat up as well, setting his elbow on the table next to Izzy’s hip, head in his hand, staring up at him serenely.

“Where’d the crew eat?”

Ed barked out a laugh.

“That’s what you want to know?” he asked, dark eyes wide and wondering, sparkling at Izzy like they haven’t for months. Years, maybe. “Not, ‘what happened?’, ‘will I live?’, ‘who’s drawers am I wearing?’”

Izzy huffed a laugh of his own and it came out rusty but warm.

“I know what happened, I’m not dying yet, and we wear the same drawers,” Izzy answered easily, like old times, and Ed’s smile grew. He looked at him the way he had when they’d first fallen in love. Izzy blinked. That had been a long time ago. “Or, used to wear,” he amended, not looking at the way Ed’s smile dimmed.

“Still the same,” Ed answered, still soft, but sadder now.

Izzy cleared his throat and made to swing his legs off the table, his hand supporting his bandaged thigh.

“Going somewhere, Iz?” Ed asked, not moving from the bench. Izzy’s feet came to settle in front of him.

“Crew’s gotta eat, Ed,” he answered, feeling the pain in his shoulder heat up as the everyday tension returned to his muscles.

“Stede says we can do a picnic on the deck,” his captain replied softly, reaching forward to curl his hands around the curve of Izzy’s calves. “Why don’t you rest, Izzy?”

Izzy stared at Ed’s hands on his skin, landing there without purpose or intention like these easy touches were something Izzy was allowed again. There were a lot of things Izzy was no longer allowed.

“I don’t get to rest,” he said, even though he let himself sit for just a little longer.

“Sure you do,” Ed continued, tightening his grip gently. “I’m captain and I say so.”

Izzy sighed, letting go of his thigh to run his hand back through his hair. It was greasy and parts were crusted with blood still.

 “Does the captain want his ship to sail?” Izzy asked, pulling his legs away one at a time to drop to the floor.

“Ship’s sailing right now, isn’t it?”

Izzy carefully pushed himself to stand, letting his injured leg take his weight gradually.

“There’s too much to do and you know it,” Izzy said, distractedly as he tested his first step. It hurt, but he would manage.

Ed’s arms wrapped gently around his waist, leaning his forehead against Izzy’s naked ribs, suddenly he had all of his attention again. Izzy would stand there until his leg rotted away if Ed simply asked.

“I wasn’t worried about you,” Ed said quietly, one thumb brushing back and forth, slowly, across his skin.

Izzy didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t surprising but it still burned.

“Stede things that’s horrible of me,” he said, tilting his head to nuzzle his nose against a ticklish spot. Izzy was holding himself too tightly to even twitch. Ed noticed, a gusty sigh blowing over Izzy’s skin as he released him. It took Izzy one more breath to actually move again. He took a few tentative steps to the water barrel, hearing the huff and jangle of Ed swinging his leg over to join the other on the outside of the bench. He drank a few scoops, because he was thirsty and because he was afraid of what would come next. Eventually, he turned to see Ed lounging back against the galley table, staring at him again with placid eyes. “I just knew you’d be alright.”

“Lived, didn’t I?” Izzy spotted a bucket in the corner of the room with black fabric soaking inside. He staggered over, picking up the wet fabric, assessing the amount of repair needed to save it.

“See, that’s what I told him,” Ed continued behind him. “But then Stede asked me something.”

Izzy gave a grunt and let the torn shirt drop with a splash. He didn’t have the energy right now.

“Stede asked me what I would do if you weren’t alright.” Ed’s voice was small and crystalline in the stillness between them, hanging in the air, ready to shatter as soon as the words hit the floor. Izzy turned his head and saw Ed leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees, fiercely facing the opposite wall. Each of them offered the other only their profile, giving only half of themselves away.

Izzy didn’t have anything to say. He didn’t know if he wanted to know the answer. So, he held the silence.

Ed let out a humorless chuckle, leaning his head down into his hands, fingers rubbing at his forehead and the spearing through grey curls.

“I didn’t have an answer for him,” he admitted, quietly, like a confession. Izzy kept his back to him, watching his captain carefully over his mangled shoulder. “I’d never thought about it, really. Didn’t make much sense to me when he asked.” Ed dropped his hands to dangle between his knees and Izzy could see blankness on his face. “We’ve been together so long. You’ve taken care of us. Through everything.”

Izzy stared hard at the side of his face. Ed’s eyes danced to catch his briefly, flinty and wild, before he looked back at the floor between his boots, forehead wrinkling.

“Iz, mate, I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.”

“You’d live,” Izzy said gruffly. It was true. It had to be true. For both of them. Ed would go on with his happy pleasure cruise. Maybe find a new dog to guard his deck, to keep watch at his back.

Ed turned his head fully, his face open and serene as he held his gaze.

“I don’t think I would,” he said with so much honesty in his voice it was like he’d cleaved open his chest to let it bleed out.

It was too much to witness, like staring into the sun. Izzy had to look away.

He stared down at his nine toes as he heard Ed let out a long exhale, leather and old bones creaking as he stood. Ed stepped closer, close enough to feel his breath on the torn and swollen skin of Izzy’s more minor wounds. He placed his palm on the nape of his neck and leaned forward like he wanted to drop his head to Izzy’s bury his nose in his hair, trace the curve of his skull with his brow. He did none of those things, and Izzy didn’t know if he was crushed or relieved.

Ed squeezed the scruff of his neck, its own kind of brief kiss, before letting his hand trail down his back. He left the room without a word.

*

If the start of his morning had been unmooring, the rest of the day continued to be absolutely bewildering.

His clothes were torn and soaking in the galley, so Izzy headed to his cabin in his smalls, his sword in one hand and his boots in the other. He’d thought the picnic Ed mentioned was a joke, until he stepped out to cross the deck and found everyone gathered about, sitting on linens, holding dainty umbrellas and tiny little sandwiches.

Spriggs spotted him and immediately choked on his food, going red in the face and wide-eyed, flapping a hand in Izzy’s direction. Soon everyone was turned to look at him. Feeney was wearing a very yellow gown. Bonnet froze with his teacup held partway between his lips and the saucer. Izzy had a sneer ready to go when Fang spoke first.

“Good to see you on your feet, boss!” he called, chipper and earnest. “Are you hungry? We saved you some munchies.” He gestured between himself and Ivan, where a small plate of breads and biscuits sat on a cushion in the shade of their shared umbrella.

“Perhaps some clothes first,” Bonnet overruled loudly, dropping his teacup with a clatter and thumping Spriggs hard on the back. “Else, I don’t think our dear Lucius will survive.”

“Oh fuck off,” he cursed at them, striding forward again. He gave himself a quick look. “You can’t even see any blood.”

He’d just cleared the deck when he heard Spriggs suck in a gasping inhale, followed by a croaked call of “Hurry back!”

Dressed in his spare change of clothes, Izzy returned to the deck fully expecting to negotiate a day’s worth of labor around the springtime gala Bonnet had arranged.

Instead, he stepped out to a mostly cleaned deck, about a third of it already damp from swabbing. All that was left of the morning picnic were two chairs set off to the side, with a small table between them and an umbrella overhead. Sitting primly in one was Bonnet, and he waved him over with enthusiasm.

“Izzy! Come join me,” he called, and Izzy grit his teeth at the order. That was one thing Bonnet had learned during their time together; when he realized Izzy was not bound by polite society to accept his odd and off-putting gentlemanly requests, he’d turned them into orders.

“Captain,” he said flatly as he neared him.

“Sit with me,” Bonnet ordered, and with a long exhale through his nose, Izzy did so, keeping his spine straight to keep the wound on his back from pressing to the varnished wood of the chair.

“I’m sure you have much to do today,” Bonnet said, reaching between them to pluck a white doily off of the table, revealing sampling of treats. “And I do not want to delay you.”

Izzy stared at the doily, trying to imagine where on the high seas they might have stolen that from. Izzy looked up to find Bonnet looking at him meaningfully, then down at the sandwiches. And back.

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Izzy considered waiting him out. Logically, he recognized that Bonnet would not try to poison him. Bonnet had warmed to him considerably in the past months. Even through the battle-high and blood loss, Izzy recalled a single slip of the tongue, a frantic “no, no, my dear,” that played in his memory with perfect clarity. Still, sweet treats did not come cheap in his experience.

“Please eat,” Bonnet pushed, his face still earnest. “Your body needs fuel to rebuild.”

Izzy sighed with resignation, this pageantry alone counting as a delay in his already adjusted accounting of the day, and grabbed something off the plate. He put it in his mouth without looking. It was too sweet for his taste, but Bonnet smiled blindingly at him when he chewed, gesturing for him to grab another.

“Go on then,” Izzy said around his mouthful, watching the crew as they moved around the deck, nearly competent in their duties.

“You were absolutely marvelous yesterday,” Bonnet said, leaning towards him, face open and unguarded. Izzy raised his brow, unable to hide surprise.

“Fuck off.” Honestly, it was a reflex.

Bonnet just grinned wider.

“Truly,” he insisted, dropping another little pastry into his hand. “I’ve never seen a warrior so single-minded, so valiant.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Izzy said, looking away. He couldn’t look at Bonnet when he said such things. Embarrassed wasn’t the right word for the twist in his chest. Chewing through the next morsel, he realized it was pleasure – enjoyment at being praised.

He swallowed hard. Coughed gently. It had been a while since he’d been allowed pride at a job well done.

“You protected your crew,” Bonnet said, this time reaching across the table, over the little plate, and dropping his hand on Izzy’s. He flinched at the touch, causing a spark of pain to bloom from his shoulder. Bonnet didn’t retreat. He left his hand resting atop Izzy’s where it was clenched on his knee.

“I protected myself,” he said, defensively, looking down.

“You fought for all of us,” Bonnet insisted, leaning so far over the table that his elbow smushed one of the sandwiches, getting cheese or some such on the silken embroidery. Izzy didn’t say anything, just watched it happen. “No one else on the sea could do what you did,” Bonnet said seriously. Izzy couldn’t resist meeting his gaze, a niggling in the back of his mind still waiting for the trap to snap shut, the other shoe to drop. But Bonnet just met his gaze with his own solemnity, fingers tightening around his hand. “We are so very lucky to have you.”

Izzy’s breath caught in his chest. He turned his head, staring out over the waves until the curling feeling of pleasure-shame from receiving coveted praise didn’t feel like such a threat to him.

For what Izzy thought was probably the first time in his entire life, Bonnet seemed to possess the ability to read the room. He hated how grateful he was when Bonnet rose to take his leave. As he’d stood the hand over Izzy’s had shifted to just fingertips, but now as Bonnet took a step closer to him, he grasped his hand again, lifting it gently.

Izzy startled, tensing immediately and then hissing when his shoulder flamed brightly again. Bonnet waited, cupping Izzy’s hand waiting for him to relax. He did, by increments, until Bonnet lifted his balled fist to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the scabbed and bruised knuckles.

Again, Izzy held his breath, convinced he’d woken into a dream.

“You have orders to rest right here for the day,” Bonnet said lowly, patting his hand as he lowered it back to his lap. “Our darling Ed will be out soon to teach me the more intricate lessons of ship maintenance.” Bonnet gave him a wry grin. “We thought you’d like a comfortable seat from which to correct us both.”  

Izzy blinked, more sure than ever that this was fantasy. Maybe he’d gotten hit harder than he thought yesterday.

*

At first, he’d been insulted. He felt like a fool: propped up in the shade, crusts cut off his bread, handed freshwater with lemon and fucking rose petals floating in it.

But then Ed moved on to cannon ties before he finished showing Bonnet how the secure the sails.

“Loose line,” he’d shouted from his prissy little seat, already pushing himself up, hissing as he put weight on his torn leg to spare his slashed shoulder

“Heard,” Feeney answered immediately, hustling from his patchwork and waving Izzy off. He stood there and watched as Feeney competently finished the tie down, and the returned to patching the lowered topsail.

“Sorry Iz,” Ed called, causing Izzy’s head to whip around so fast he thought a stitch might have popped. Ed, Edward, his Edward, apologizing to him with a sheepish smile on his face. “We knew I’d get distracted,” he and Bonnet chuckled, both looking at him, like this was a fun joke they were all in on together. “That’s why we wanted you out here,” his captain continued. “Sit back down and keep an eye out for the next thing I forget.”

Izzy did, more out of stunned confusion than actually following orders.

He watched with only mild concern as ship business went about in front of him.

Ed occasionally glossed over some details in favor of flirting with Bonnet, but a growl from Izzy set them back on track with blushing cheeks.

Pete had to retie a baton hold twice, but before Izzy could get up to smack him upside the head and show him how to do it, the Swede was already there, taking over and even showing Pete where he’d gone wrong.

Frenchie appeared around midday and handed Izzy his shirt and trousers from the day before, still slightly damp but mended and cleaned.

“This is good work,” Izzy said with surprise, rubbing his thumb over the strong stitching.

“Glad you think so,” the lad said sunnily before grabbing a mop and starting to swab. Without even being asked.

This was… odd. Izzy kept expecting something to happen, honestly waiting to jerk awake in a bloody sick bed, smelling salts crunching under his nose, this idea of rest just a cruel trick.

But the day went horribly well. Work got done, not perfectly, and not without Izzy’s help, but the ship was sailing in good condition and Izzy hadn’t had to bleed or bite for it. He felt suspiciously rested. And every time Ed or Bonnet smiled at him, he felt weirdly pleased.

Just before lunch, Roach appeared at his side, smelling of saffron and blood, a surprisingly appealing scent. He had a blunt held in the corner of his mouth as he frequently did and he looked him over.

“Stitches holding?”

“Fine,” Izzy said, turning his head to roll his neck and test his shoulder.

“You will tell me if they don’t,” Roach said, and Izzy bristled at the implied order, opening his mouth to say something about who barks orders around here. Instead, his lips were met with Roach’s bread-warmed fingers, his blunt held between them.

Izzy took it in his teeth with a snarl that sounded far less intimidating than he’d planned. Roach’s mouth pulled up into a kind of smile, the kind Izzy wasn’t used to getting.

“It’s your day off,” he said with a lazy shrug. “Enjoy that. Save the yelling for later.”

Izzy took a distracted pull from the blunt, watching through the thin smoke as Roach called everyone for lunch. The crew started filing inside with excited chatter and hungry complaints. Izzy wondered if Roach had given him some sort of psychoactive yesterday, if this was all some terrible imagining.

But when Spriggs stopped by his side, dropping his soft hand on Izzy’s forearm, it felt startlingly real.

“Hey, Captains, can we have another picnic?” Spriggs called up to the mizzen, appearing for all purposes as though he didn’t even know he was touching Izzy. Izzy stared at his hand, not knowing what he was supposed to do with it.

“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it Ed?” Bonnet’s voice rolled down. “We can join Izzy out here!”

“Lovely,” Spriggs said, patting Izzy’s arm. When he looked up at the pup he gave his a shitty little smirk and then he winked.

Izzy sucked hard on the joint as everyone walked past him with nods and brief smiles. Bonnet’s ‘my dear,’ Ed’s ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ Roach’s fingers on his lips, Lucius’ wink.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with any of this??

Stede watched smugly as the crew improved over the next few weeks. He’s asked Lucius about it at one point and the lad had said something cryptic but promising about how the crew had been looking forward to getting a pet. Ed had spat in his tea and made Lucius promise not to ever say anything like that in front of Izzy. Stede didn’t really understand but the Ed and the boy were smiling so he figured that was good enough leadership from him.

Forcing Izzy to rest after his injury had reaped several benefits for the crew as a whole. Izzy moved with less pain and greater strength every day. Stede had learned far more about sailing than he had in the last year, now that he and Ed had decided to take on a more active, presence on deck. And the crew was finally warming to their first mate. Partly, no doubt, due to the fact that Izzy had less occasion to strike them or spit at them. But with the full leadership team at work with and amongst the crew, Stede could feel real bonds being forged between the ranks, and with that, greater ability and confidence was fostered in them all.

Stede leaned against the mizzen rail and sighed happily down at his crew. He truly had created something beautiful here, he thought, as Izzy shouted something horribly unkind but actually quite funny at Oluwande. Before Stede brought them together, the crew would have closed ranks against Izzy, even if he was right. But now they laughed as a crew and Oluwande returned to his task, firing something back at Izzy that made the very corner of his beard twitch in a smile.

Yes, Stede truly had done something amazing here. All these people, with their different skills and hopes and fears, brought together to work together in the spirit of adventure.

He was an excellent captain. And when Izzy looked up, squinting against the sun to catch his eye, he was very grateful for his excellent first mate.

Watching Stede moon over Izzy was far more enjoyable than his own courtship had been with either of them. He and Izzy had just been scared kids, trauma-bonded together and fused into the same body of a legend. He and Stede had been scared adults, skirting uncertainly around new experiences and unlearned rules. Ed had much to regret over how he and these men had treated each other.

But watching the two of them now? Having both grown, struggled, hurt, and learned, they were meeting as the best versions of themselves.

Ed wasn’t used to thinking of Izzy as separate from himself. Izzy was his, was a part of him. But seeing him hazy and empty-eyed from pain, and hearing him talk about himself like he was nothing but a tool to be use, forced Ed to see them both clearer. Ed knew him as a man who would live, kill and die for him, and in every way that there was no Ed without Izzy, there must also be Izzy, fully himself. Ed demanded nothing less. If Izzy was to remain his, he would be better taken care of.

Let it not be said anywhere amongst the waves that Blackbeard does not closely and jealously guard his treasures.

Izzy looked up at the Revenge with a new kind of warmth in his chest. Seeing her lit by the glow of dock lanterns, fully rigged and neatly kept, he realized this was the first port he’d been truly proud of dock her in. She was finally looking as a ship should – well cared for and well stocked, a fortress for the people who sailed her.

He walked up the gangplank, surprised to hear the sounds of his crew aboard. Many of his men were lounging about on deck, drinking by candle light, playing dice and cards. They greeted him when he stepped on, with lifted tankards and calls of varying rowdiness.

“Fuck are you lot doing here?” he shouted. “I gave you the night so I could have some peace and fucking quiet.”

“Peace and fucking quiet,” Roach rumbled on a laugh. “What would you know about peace and quiet, Izzy?” the crew laughed and Izzy still had the bad habit of hiding his surprised smiles behind his hand.

“You gave us all leave, pendejo,” Jimenez chimed, not looking up from their cards.

“And?” Izzy asked, stepping forward to snatch a mug of wine out of Ivan’s outstretched hand.

“I don’t know about you,” Oluwande said, making a show of carefully studying his cards. “But my first mate says a ship is never to be without two souls.”

“And the captains fucked off, so,” Jimenez continued, the two of them in sync in a way that was so familiar it was hard to look at.

“Blah blah blah,” Spriggs declared, from where he was sitting curled up in Frenchie’s lap, ostensibly learning how to play the lute despite his fingers plucking at different strings. “We brought the party to you, old man.” He crowed. “Shut up and drink with us.”

Izzy tried to hide his laugh in his drink, but some might’ve slipped out as the rest of the crew chuckled and returned to their lighthearted evening.

He took a moment to survey, assessing the crew and taking stock of the ship. All seemed right. Buttons was doing something questionable with the bird, but aside that, all seemed right. He knew the captains had ducked into an upscale blacksmith earlier in the day and hadn’t seen them since. He pushed hopeful thoughts of what delicious steel they might bring back for him out of his mind.

“Alright, who wants to lose all their money on dice?” he called, making his way into the circle of candlelight and comfort.

He took a drink, looking at the round and smiling faces of his crew. Izzy thought that of all the homes he could die protecting, this one would certainly be the warmest.

A perfect place for an old dog to lie down his tired bones.