OFMD FIC: Cut Anchor

[xylodemon]

Title: Cut Anchor
Pairing: Edward/Izzy, Izzy/Jack
Rating: NC17
Words: ~35,000
Summary: Jack stares at him for a moment—his mouth open, his greasy hair hanging in his face. Then: "Well, God damn. I always figured you two'd sail the distance."
Notes: This is set in a mythical Season 2 where Stede returns to the Revenge and reconciles with Ed, and Izzy leaves so they can be happy. He spends some time sailing with Calico Jack. It's a prequel to a Steddyhands fic I wrote about a month ago: Bang the Doldrums. It fills in some of the references to past events in that fic, but you don't need to have read that to read this. Warnings for canon-typical language and alcohol/tobacco use and canon-typical violence. Some NPC sailors die on screen.


[AO3]


Cut Anchor

Some ten or fifteen years ago, Izzy met a nun in San Juan who'd told him that God smiles on fools. He hadn't believed her then and hasn't believed her since; in all his years at sea, he's seen far too many idiots die idiotic deaths. But Ivan telling him that the dot in the water off their larboard side is Stede fucking Bonnet has him reconsidering.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

Instead of answering, Ivan hands Izzy his spyglass. Izzy holds it to his eye and waits for his vision to refocus with a knife-life chill slicing into his gut. It is Bonnet, sitting at the bow of a dinghy that's probably leaking, giving how low she's lying in the water. His face is sunburnt, and his hair and clothes are unkempt, but Izzy would recognize the stupid twat anywhere. From what he can see, Bonnet has the rest of his imbecilic crew with him, including fucking Lucius; fuck only knows how he found them.

Izzy opens his mouth to say ready on a gun. One clean cannon-shot would end it; if it didn't hit Bonnet directly, it would blow the dinghy to kingdom come. Stede fucking Bonnet would go into the drink and Edward would never need to know.

He'd also never be Edward again. Right now, he barely remembers how to be Blackbeard.

He might be calling himself that now, but he's crueler and more brutal than any version of Blackbeard Izzy has ever known, when he isn't crying when he thinks Izzy can't see him, or drinking so much that Izzy ends up carrying him to bed more nights than not. He's reckless on raids to the point of death-wish—ordering broadside against vessels twice their size, rushing to board despite absurdly mismatched numbers, dueling so flippantly and carelessly it's been all Izzy can do to keep him alive. When he bothers to come on deck, he delights in terrorizing the crew, although he often stays shut up in the captain's cabin for days at a time.

Mutiny isn't far off; Izzy can feel the ragged edge of anticipation in the air, nagging at him like a piece of dried beef stuck between his teeth. He's done his best to keep things in hand, but he's been a sailor nearly all of his life. He knows when a hole in the hull can be patched and when it cannot, and Edward's authority over the crew is slipping away, fast. Ivan and Fang are loyal, although seeing Lucius and Black Pete again, even briefly and from a distance, could easily change Fang's mind. Frenchie and Jim are essentially pressed men. And the new hands they picked up in Nevis—dogs happy enough to sign on with the legendary Blackbeard at the time—have been watching Edward for the last few days with cold, flinty eyes.

Izzy looks through the spyglass again. Oluwande is on the oars; if he keeps his current pace, the dinghy will reach the Revenge in eight minutes. Seven men coming aboard will stretch things by two or three more. Planning a good fuckery requires time, and Izzy has about ten minutes, give or take.

He clenches his hands into fists. He feels sick, like the ship is heaving and tossing with a storm. He breathes through it before telling Ivan, "Let them up."

"Boss?" Ivan asks, uncertain.

"Let them up." Breathe. Breathe. Izzy lowers his voice as he adds, "If the Captain orders anyone killed, I'll handle it myself. Understood?"

Ivan replies, "Yes, Boss," then turns to one of the new hands—Jacob, a Navy deserter with a scar creasing one cheek—and says, "Bring the ladder."



+++



In the weeks since Edward had the Revenge purged of Bonnet's fancies and fripperies, the captain's cabin has mostly remained empty. They've raided numerous ships in the meantime, most with plenty of furniture for the taking. For whatever reason, Edward hasn't bothered to obtain anything except one chair, one small table, and some bedding far less sumptuous than the linens and silks he had Bonnet's idiots toss overboard. It makes the cabin feel cavernous—especially now, with the curtains drawn. There's no light beyond the single candle flickering on the table and the nearly-dead fire whispering in the hearth.

Izzy's footsteps echo off all the bare wood as he crosses the floor. He finds Edward lounging in the chair, his bad leg stretched out. He hasn't bathed; the kohl smeared around his eyes is left over from a raid three days ago. His pipe is in his hand, but the tobacco in the bowl is burnt and cold. Izzy waits once he's in front of him; he might take Izzy speaking first as disrespect, depending on his mood, and Izzy still isn't sure how he should play this.

After a long pause—a full minute Izzy can't spare, despite not having made a decision yet—Edward asks, "Do you need something?"

Izzy needs to have killed Bonnet on that island. He needs to have not lost that duel to Bonnet through an unthinkable stroke of bad luck. He needs to have asked someone more reliable than Calico fucking Jack to get Edward clear of the Navy. He needs to have not provoked Edward into becoming Blackbeard again. And he needs to not need that twat in the leaky dinghy to pull Edward out of his head. Since he doubts God will smile on his foolish hide and make that happen, he needs to blunt the edges of Edward's fury before Edward and Bonnet are face to face. As much as Izzy would prefer Bonnet dead or worse, he knows Edward would never forgive himself for killing him.

Another minute is winding down. Izzy takes a step closer to Edward and drops to his knees. He can't think of a better option. Edward tends to go slack and boneless after coming—so slack and boneless he might not spear his sword through Bonnet's gut the moment he sees him. Besides, Izzy might as well touch Edward one last time while he still has a chance.

Edward scoffs. "That's what you need?" He grips Izzy hair and twists just this side of too hard. "What makes you think I'm interested?"

"I," Izzy starts. Breathe. Breathe. "I was hoping you might indulge me, Captain."

Edward scoffs again and growls, "I do that a lot, don't I?" But then he shifts down in the chair enough for Izzy to unlace his pants and gives Izzy's hair another tug. "You'd suck my cock all day if I let you, wouldn't you?"

Izzy doesn't waste time denying it; the clock is still winding down, and there's no harm in letting Edward believe something that's near enough to the truth. He has six minutes now, and Edward isn't anywhere close to hard—not surprising, considering how much he's been drinking lately. But Izzy's been sharing Edward's bed for most of twenty-seven years; he knows where to drag his lips, and he knows when to flatten his tongue and when to curl it, and he knows how to trail his fingers into the crease of Edward's thigh and over the tight, sensitive skin behind his balls.

He knows Edward. He knows Edward better than fucking Bonnet ever could or ever will. He just isn't what Edward needs.

Five minutes, more or less; having Edward in his mouth is distracting him from the clock ticking in his head. Edward's cock is full now—full and heavy and pushing against Izzy's tongue. Izzy teases over the head like he knows Edward likes, then sinks down and draws up, sinks down and draws up, sinks down and draws up. He teases over the head again, letting his tongue catch against the slit, and Edward makes a rough, almost angry noise. He spreads his legs as much as his pants will allow and digs his fingernails into Izzy's scalp.

Izzy sinks down and draws up, sinks down and draws up, finding a steady rhythm and taking Edward deeper and deeper each time. His lips brush the thatch of hair at the base of Edward's cock and the smell of leather and sweat crowds into his nose. His own cock is harder than the mainmast, aching as it pushes against the front of his pants. He ignores it; there isn't time. If he's figured things right, Bonnet should be climbing aboard about now.

Edward's hips jerk up. He slides his hand down to the back of Izzy's neck and holds it there, and Izzy opens his throat so Edward can fuck in as far as he wants. He drags his tongue along the length of Edward's cock as he pulls up and curls it under the head as he pushes back down. Up, down. Up, down. Edward makes another noise, rougher than before; his thighs shake against Izzy's shoulders. He fucks in and in and in, and Izzy swallows around him, trying not to gag. He doesn't need to be red-faced and wet-eyed when he gets back on deck. The swollen flush on his lips will be bad enough.

"Izzy," Edward says. His voice is dark, edged with something horrible, but it's the first time he's said Izzy's name in days. "You—fuck. You want it on your face or—fuck, fuck—in your mouth?"

Izzy would want it on his face—he loves Edward marking him, loves seeing the possessive heat that sparks in Edward's eyes when he does it—but that's a mess he doesn't have time for. He sinks deep on Edward's cock and swallows and swallows and swallows and flattens his tongue right against the vein. Edward comes, shuddering, a moan catching in his throat. He claws at the arm of the chair with one hand and digs bloody half-moons into the back of Izzy's neck with the other.

Izzy's timing is perfect; he's sitting back on his heels and relacing Edward's pants when a familiar, poncy voice loudly demands, "I want to speak with Ed at once."

Something crosses Edward's face—something like hope—but it's there and gone so quickly that Izzy could think he imagined it. It's replaced by an expression that's outright murderous.

"Who," he grates out, low and dangerous. "Who the fuck is that?"

"It sounds like Bonnet," Izzy replies, like he doesn't already know—like his gut isn't in knots, like he can't taste Edward's come in his mouth.

Edward stands up so quickly that his bad knee pops; Izzy—his hands still resting on Edward's thighs—tumbles backward and lands on his ass. Outside, Bonnet demands to speak with Edward again, his tone so prissy and indignant that Izzy pictures him stamping his foot. Edward turns toward the door; his shoulders are stiffer than a yardarm. He clenches his fists hard enough that his gloves creak: leather grinding against leather.

He snarls, "Get the fuck up," at Izzy without bothering to look at him. So much for slack and boneless. "Bring me my pistol and my sword."



+++



"Stede fucking Bonnet," Edward spits, his sword poised where Bonnet's neck curves into his shoulder. He's trembling with rage; Izzy should've just fired a canon at Bonnet instead of wasting that time on his knees. "I can't imagine what business you think you have with me."

Bonnet studies Edward for a moment, lingering on the kohl around his eyes, the tangles in his hair, the unhealed and unbandaged sword-cut on his arm, still crusted with blood. He can't seem to decide where to start. His voice is low and strained when he finally gathers himself enough to say, "Ed."

That makes it Izzy's turn; he barks, "His name is Blackbeard, dog," and mostly manages to sound like he means it.

Bonnet shoots Izzy a glare so contemptuous that Izzy feels it behind his teeth. He looks more bedraggled up close than he had through the spyglass: greasy hair and a patchy beard and dry, cracked lips. His shirt is torn and missing buttons, and his cheeks and nose and forehead are heat-blistered. Wet sand is clinging to his bare feet and the ragged hems of his pants.

He gestures to the sword at his neck. "Is this really necessary?"

"You boarded my ship."

"Your ship?" Bonnet questions, affronted. "The Revenge is my ship and you know it."

Edward shows Bonnet some teeth. "I know you abandoned her. I know I've been her captain—her only captain—for weeks."

"I did not—"

"And"—Edward drags the point of his sword down to the hollow of Bonnet's throat—"me and my men are armed. You and yours are not. That definitely makes her my ship." Without looking away from Bonnet, he asks, "Isn't that right, Izzy?"

"Yes," Izzy replies. He can still taste Edward's come in his mouth.

"Ed," Bonnet starts, but Edward digs the sword in a little—not enough to draw blood, but enough to shut him up.

He threatens, "Does Izzy need to teach you some manners?"

Bonnet glares pure murder at Izzy again before conceding, "Fine," like his mouth is full of broken glass. "Blackbeard, if you insist. I can explain everything. I never meant to hurt you."

Someone murmurs across the deck: Frenchie, maybe, or Lucius. It reminds Izzy that everyone is fucking watching this—witnessing something Edward would consider private if he was anywhere near his right mind. Bonnet's lot are huddled near the capstan, Jim and Frenchie included. Fang and Ivan are just fore of them, and Jacob is just fore of them. Stump is at the larboard rail, his back to the water, his maimed hand stuffed in his pocket and his good hand a bit too close to his axe. Mort is beside him; his coat's open around the hilt of his sword and he's sneering at Edward down his long, hooked nose.

Izzy says, "Boss," sharp. This might still be salvageable, if Edward forgets he's meant to be Blackbeard right now—if Izzy can get them somewhere without an audience. "Maybe you and Bonnet should talk things over inside."

Edward's face contorts with anger—questioning him on deck is worth a flogging these days—but his expression shifts to something almost blank as his eyes skim past Izzy and take in the crowd. He turns back to Bonnet and nods, more to himself than to what Izzy said. He lowers his sword just enough that Bonnet can move without slicing himself open from bow to stern.

"Go," he tells Bonnet, jerking his head toward the captain's cabin.

Bonnet hesitates—long enough that Edward reaches for his pistol with his free hand. He doesn't find it; Izzy pinched it when he'd helped him buckle his sword belt. Giving a seething fucking Blackbeard one weapon had seemed dangerous enough.

Pistol or no pistol, the motion loosens Bonnet's tongue. He ventures, "Perhaps," and gives Edward another searching look. "Perhaps that would be best."

Edward pauses as he's turning. He spares Izzy half a glance as he orders, "Kill everyone else who came aboard."

"What?" Bonnet yelps, outraged and horrified at once. "Absolutely not. I won't stand by while my crew are slaughtered."

In a blink, Edward's sword is back at Bonnet's throat. He leans into it as he warns, "Won't you?"

Izzy catches Bonnet's eye and just barely—barely—nods. Bonnet, thank fuck, doesn't acknowledge it beyond a pissy twist to his mouth that could mean anything or nothing to Edward, but it tells Izzy he's considering cooperating. Izzy's expectations are down in the bilges; he knows that Bonnet has no conceivable reason to trust him. But a moment later, Bonnet apparently realizes that Izzy is his only way out of this. Quickly—so quickly Izzy nearly misses it—he darts a glance at his crew. Izzy replies with another slight—slight—nod.

Finally, Bonnet says, "Well. It seems I have no choice," in a flat, wooden voice.

Shocked and frightened gasps ripple through Bonnet's crew. Frenchie clutches at Wee John, and Jim takes a decisive step toward Oluwande. Roach and the Swede look larboard, where Stump and Mort are blocking the ladder. Black Pete pulls a penny knife from his boot and flicks it open to reveal a blade half the width of his palm. It's the kind of thing cutpurses keep in their pockets and whores hide in their stays—good enough against tough marks or rough punters but useless in a deck-fight.

Bonnet and Edward move toward the captain's cabin: Bonnet in front and Edward behind, Bonnet shuffling sideways, almost crablike, so Edward's sword isn't at his back. Bonnet's crew huddles closer together; Jim passes Oluwande one of their knives, and Buttons starts fitting those idiotic metal teeth into his mouth. Fang is still a pace or two from Lucius and Pete, but he's clearly conflicted, his eyes narrow and his mouth tight and his fingers restless at grip of his rapier. The only sounds are fourteen men breathing and the wind as it snaps the lines and rustles the reefed sails.

As soon as Edward and Bonnet are gone, Izzy tells Ivan, "Take them to my cabin."

"Your cabin?"

"My cabin," Izzy barks, pointing to the forecastle. If Edward comes back to himself, it won't matter where the fuck they are, but if he doesn't, they'll need a quick path back to Bonnet's dinghy. They'll never make it if they're below deck. "Find them something to eat. Cold rations," he adds, when Roach perks up a little. "Do not draw attention to yourselves."

Stump rouses from his stupor at the railing and grunts, "Capt'n said he wanted 'em dead."

"I know he did." Reckless—Izzy's being reckless. He should've killed the strangers aboard before countermanding Edward. "I want them alive."

"Who the fuck're you to be deciding that?" Stump demands.

Izzy draws his pistol and points it right between Stump's beady eyes. "I'm the cunt with a gun in your ugly face." He catches Mort shifting his weight from the corner of his eye and pulls Edward's pistol from the waist of his pants. He's a miserable shot with his left hand, but Mort's close enough that it might not matter. "Any more stupid questions?"

Fang asks, "Boss…?" with an uncertain curl in his voice.

"It's fine," Izzy replies. Mort hasn't moved, but Stump's hand seems a hair closer to his axe. "I killed Benjamin fucking Hornigold, for fuck's sake. I can handle two spineless mutineers."

"Mutineers?" Mort croaks. Sweat is beading on his forehead. He cuts a nervous glance at something over Izzy's shoulder—Jacob. "We're ain't—"

"Fuck off," Izzy snarls. "I've been at sea longer than you worthless shits have been alive. Do you think I don't know when the hands are muttering?"

Stump opens his mouth around something—probably a denial—but his tongue clicks like he's physically swallowing it down. His eyes darken in anger, and he snaps, "He's fucking insane."

"He's fucking Blackbeard," Izzy says, rough. "Of course he's fucking insane. He's always been fucking insane. You must've heard the rumors before you signed on with him." He cocks the flints on both pistols, his left thumb just slower than his right. "It's a bad spot for you that you never heard the rumors about me. I'd do anything to protect him. That makes me far more insane than him."

"Oh, we heard plenty about you," Stump sneers.

"Then you know I'd put down a mutiny for him." Izzy jabs the pistol closer to Stump's face. "I'd put it down if I had to kill every man aboard."

Mort whines, "C'mon, Hands," and waves at Bonnet's crew. "You telling me this ain't mutiny?"

Izzy bares his teeth. "As first mate, I have the right to exercise my own judgement when the captain isn't on deck." That's true, within certain bounds—bounds he's trampling all over right now. If Edward is still Blackbeard when this is over, he'll probably gut Izzy for his presumption alone, but Izzy went in for much more than a penny when he put Edward's cock in his mouth. "But if you want, we can do it by lots. Ivan? Are you with me, or them?"

"You, Boss."

"Fang?"

Fang barely hesitates. "You, Boss."

"Frenchie?"

"Uh… you…?" Frenchie must realize that sounded like a question because he tries again. "You. Definitely you, sir."

"Jim?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but you."

Izzy gambles—fucking reckless. "Jacob?"

"Oh," Jacob replies. If he is part of a plot, this would be a bad time to admit it. Stump and Mort are as good as dead, and he's on the wrong side of the deck—surrounded by Bonnet's crew, even if they're barely armed. "You, sir."

Izzy smiles like a knife. He tells Stump and Mort, "It looks like you shits have two options: I can blow holes in your heads, or you can get in that dinghy and put us to your backs."

"Without food or water?" Stump complains, like Izzy's being fucking unreasonable. Under any other circumstances, he'd been hanging them from one of the yardarms and leaving their corpses to rot as a warning. "It's death either way."

"We're only two days from the Republic." The current isn't in their favor, which makes it closer to four, but that's their problem, not Izzy's. "You might make it if you row harder than you've worked aboard this ship."

Unsurprisingly, they choose the dinghy. Likely death is one thing; certain death is something else. Izzy sends Frenchie to fetch their ditty bags from their bunks in the general quarters. He keeps the pistols on them as they scramble over the railing and down the ladder: Stump first, Mort second. Frenchie heaves the ditty bags after them, nearly plopping one in the water. After that, there's some grumbling about who should man the oars first—an argument Stump wins by reminding Mort that he only has one whole hand. Snarling, Mort grabs the oars and pulls. And pulls. And pulls. The dinghy's bow cuts a wake in the water as Mort fights against the current.

They're half a league out when Izzy finally lowers the pistols. He looks at Ivan and snaps, "My cabin, now. And lower a dinghy, just in case."

"Got it."

Oluwande pauses as the others are turning to follow Ivan. He says, "Izzy—" but Izzy shuts him up with a glare.

"Don't," he hisses. He didn't do it for them. Having them killed is just something else Edward would regret—not as much as he'd regret killing Bonnet, but enough. "I've wanted those cunts off this ship for weeks. You lot just gave me the excuse. Got it?"

Oluwande's mouth works around something else, but Jim tugs his sleeve, and that makes him think better of it. He nods instead and wraps an arm around Jim's shoulders, and the two of them turn toward the forecastle. Frenchie and John follow behind them, holding hands like the Revenge is a posh walking garden and not a fucking pirate ship. At the forecastle door, Pete and Lucius are hugging Fang, Pete against his back and Lucius against his chest.

Izzy—he should check on Edward and Bonnet. He heads for the captain's cabin, stowing the pistols as he goes. He can still taste Edward's come in his mouth. His gut twists as he opens the door. There's nothing about this he wants to see or hear, but he needs to keep Bonnet alive a little while longer.



+++



Izzy is three tots into a bottle of rum when someone knocks on his door. He can't imagine who it might be. As soon as he gave Bonnet's lot the all clear, they'd crowded into the rec room for some kind of soppy reunion, complete with whatever food Roach could scrounge together from the meager ship's fare in the storage holds. For whatever reason, they'd taken fucking Jacob with them. Fang and Ivan are on deck, watching in case Stump and Mort try to sneak back aboard. Edward and Bonnet are probably still in the captain's cabin.

When Izzy left them, Bonnet had been holding one of Edward's hands in both of his, and Edward had been close to tears. It had been more that Izzy could stomach—more than he'd been willing to stomach once Bonnet's life seemed safe from Blackbeard's whims.

Another knock: louder this time. He doesn't want company, but the rum has him mind-slow and mouth-quick. He grunts, "Yeah," instead of pretending to be asleep.

It's fucking Edward. He still has kohl on his face, but it's fainter now, streaked like he cried and rubbed his eyes with his hands. His hair is tied back, making a brushy tail at the nape of his neck. He studies Izzy for a moment, then closes the door with his heel and leans back against it. His jaw is visibly tight despite his regrowing beard.

He doesn't order Izzy on his feet, so Izzy stays where he is—sitting at the head of his bunk, his legs sprawled out and the bottle of rum in his lap. It's disrespect, but that's a drop in the ocean compared to everything else Izzy's done today: prevarication, dereliction, undermining authority, near-mutiny. Whatever he and Edward are to each other—whatever they have been to each other—Edward would be within his rights to toss Izzy in the brig or throw him off the ship.

After a long, horrible pause, Edward says, "You lied to me. Earlier, you acted surprised that Stede was on board, but now I hear you ordered it."

"Yes," Izzy admits. There's no point denying it. Ivan accepts that Izzy knows Edward best—enough to follow deck orders that temper Edward's darker fancies and moods—but he won't lie to Edward about it, not to save Izzy's skin. "You needed to talk to him."

"That wasn't your decision, mate."

Edward's probably right, but Izzy isn't sorry. Underneath the anger, Edward already seems more focused, more clear-minded, less erratic, and less morose; Izzy can see it just in the way he's standing. Stupid fucking Stede Bonnet. As if Izzy needed more proof that he isn't who Edward needs.

He says, "You've been off your fucking head since he left."

Edward makes a short, derisive sound. "You're the one who wanted Blackbeard back. You're the one who said Edward should watch his back. You're the one," he accuses, pointing a finger at Izzy like he's jabbing a knife, "who said you should've let the English fucking kill me, just because I wasn't being who you wanted me to be."

Izzy drinks a little rum before saying, "I would've been happy to have Blackbeard back." Who he really wants is the man Edward had been before Blackbeard—the man he'd been when he and Izzy shared a hammock on Hornigold's ship, even the man he'd been in the first months after the mutiny—but that Edward disappeared into smoke and legend over a decade ago. Blackbeard's all Izzy has left. "Whoever the fuck you've been these last few weeks—that wasn't him."

"You think you know Blackbeard that well?"

The penny is long spent; Izzy might as well go in for that pound. "I know him well enough."

"Well enough," Edward repeats. Something flashes in his eyes—anger, but something else, something weighed down by the ring at Izzy's neck and the two of them jumping off a burning ship together and everything else that's happened over the course of twenty-seven long years. "What were you playing at, when you came in asking me to indulge you?"

"Do I need a reason to touch you?"

"I'd like to think not. But it sure as shit seems like you had one." Edward shifts his weight, bending his bad knee like it's bothering him. "What was the plan? You thought you'd sweeten me up a bit before sending me out to Stede?"

There's no point denying that, either. Izzy swirls the rum around in the bottle as he says, "It worked, didn't it? You talked to him without stabbing him. And now you two are"—he waves a hand, uncertain how to describe them—"friends again."

"This isn't about Stede," Edward snaps.

Izzy sits up straight, asking, "What, then?" as he swings his legs over the side of the bunk and puts his feet on the floor. "What is it about?"

"I've trusted you a long time, mate," Edward says, and there's a hint of Blackbeard in his voice—a roughness at the edges, a heaviness between each word. "I've trusted you with everything I have. Everything I am." He shifts again, wincing slightly as he rests the weight of his bad leg on the ball of that foot. "When did you plan on telling me I lost two hands?"

Izzy reaches under his bunk and grabs the handle on his stowage chest. He tugs it out and shoves it across the floor for Edward to sit on as he explains, "It happened while you were in with Bonnet. I haven't seen you since." Edward—the stubborn twat—doesn't sit, and Izzy doesn't bother trying to make him. "They'd been muttering against you."

"And you didn't tell me?"

Izzy nearly scoffs; Edward hasn't exactly been approachable lately. But mentioning that will only get him bitching about Blackbeard again, so Izzy says, "I only suspected. I didn't have proof," and drinks a little more rum. "Once they showed themselves, I sorted it."

"What about Jacob?"

"If he turns out to be trouble, I'll sort him too," Izzy promises. "You know I will."

Edward pauses again before saying, "I don't know that I do. Not when you keep going behind my back."

"Fuck off," Izzy snaps, getting to his feet so quickly that he knocks over the rum bottle. He leaves it there, even though it's glugging rum onto the floor. His chest is fucking aching. "When the fuck—"

"You sold me to the fucking Navy!"

"I sold Bonnet to the fucking Navy." Izzy's hair—still disheveled from Edward pulling it earlier—falls in his face, and he bats it away. "You weren't even supposed to be on the ship. You wouldn't have been, if Rackham wasn't so fucking hopeless. I didn't"—his voice cracks—"I didn't know you'd swim back and get yourself arrested. I didn't know you'd lose all sense and sign yourself away to the fucking Crown."

"And that makes it square?" Edward demands, Blackbeard in his voice again. Furious heat his flushing his face. "Stede nearly died."

Izzy snarls and kicks the bottle—hard enough that it shatters against the wall in a shower of rum and glass. "I don't give a fuck about Stede fucking Bonnet." Edward objects to that with a harsh, angry noise, but Izzy just talks over him, "I give a fuck about you, Edward. You. I sold Bonnet to the Navy for you."

Silence. Something nasty crosses Edward's face—something nasty and leering. He grabs Izzy's jaw and shoves his thumb in Izzy's mouth and uses the hold to tug Izzy closer. He fists his other hand in the front of Izzy's vest, twisting until the leather draws tight across Izzy's shoulders and back. He's hard against Izzy's hip, and Izzy almost—almost—laughs. Nothing turns Edward on like knowing the lengths Izzy will go for him.

Edward dips his head a little and asks, "Do you know what I think?" all hot breath and scratchy beard. "I think you sold Stede to the Navy because you were jealous." His teeth graze the shell of Izzy's ear. "You don't like to share."

Izzy does laugh then—short, rough, and as nasty as the look Edward still has on his face. He jerks his head back enough to get Edward's thumb out of his mouth, then asks, "And you do?" and taps the X tattooed on his cheek. Edward's always claimed he did it so people would know they'd taken up together, but in truth, it probably had more to do with Izzy sharing a bunk with Bellamy during his privateering stint—with the two of them signing onto Hornigold's crew together. Bellamy had had Izzy first, and Edward wasn't going to work beside him every day without letting him know he couldn't have Izzy again. "I didn't do this myself."

That earns him more teeth, right at the hinge of his jaw. Edward insists, "You didn't complain."

Izzy hadn't—still wouldn't. He knows who he belongs to, even if Edward sometimes fucking forgets. He curls his hand in Edward's beard and tugs, forcing Edward to look him in the eye as he asks, "We made some promises once, yeah?"

Edward growls, "Yeah," and skims his knuckles over the hard line of Izzy's cock. "I guess we did."

"Each other, before anyone else." Izzy can still picture it: the heavy rum-sweat-sex stench of a room above a tavern, Edward kissing his neck as he pressed a ring into his hand. "That's what I was thinking, when I risked myself to treat with Navy dogs—me, a pirate and a fucking deserter, like that cunt admiral wouldn't have rather hanged me from Jackie's rafters." He slides a hand down to Edward's hip and grips it, hard. "Bonnet's idiocy was going to get you killed. I wasn't going to let that happen, even if Bonnet had you so cock-struck that you didn't care if I rowed away from you."

"You," Edward starts, harsh, almost snarling. He cuts off there to grab Izzy by the arm, then hustles him back toward the bunk and pushes him down. "Don't act like I wanted you to leave. You were—fuck, get your fucking pants off." Izzy bites back another laugh; in some ways, Edward is as predictable as the tide. He unlaces his pants and pushes them down to his knees as Edward says, "You set the terms of that duel," and climbs on top of him. "Where's the oil?"

"I don't need it," Izzy replies—they've fucked with spit plenty of times before and definitely will again—but Edward fishes the jar from the space between the bunk and wall and uncorks it with a fingernail.

He says, "I didn't want you to duel him." He runs a hand over one of Izzy's tits—hard enough to brush the ring in his nipple through his shirt and vest—and presses two slick fingers inside Izzy's hole. Izzy arches off the bunk, hissing out a low, choked noise, and Edward chuckles, dark and teasing and filthy. "Fuck, look at you. You already want anything I'll give you."

"Yeah," Izzy admits. Edward's shin is sitting on the pushed-down bulk of his pants, trapping his legs and pinning him to the bunk; all he can do is lie there and let Edward press and curl his fingers however he wants. "I thought you did."

"Did what?"

"Want me to duel him."

"I told you not to."

"You told me you'd kill him yourself," Izzy argues. Edward finally gives him another finger, and he rocks into it as best he can. His hands grab for Edward's arms and face and hair—any part of Edward he can reach. "You told me you would, and then you didn't. When you can't do it, I do it for you. I've always done it for you."

"Iz, fuck," Edward hisses. His cock is harder than iron and soaking wet where he's grinding it against Izzy's thigh. "Iz."

"I've always—fuck. Hurry up and get in me."

Edward slips his fingers out of Izzy and urges him to turn over. It's awkward and fumbling—Izzy's a little rum-clumsy and his legs are still caught in his pants—but Edward guides him with a bruising grip on his hip and then yanks him up to his hands and knees. Edward's first thrust is slower than Izzy wants or expects; Izzy grunts out a curse and hitches back, trying to get Edward to move. Edward slaps his ass for that, but then he does move, finally, fucking in and in and in so hard and fast that the bunk dips and creaks and Izzy nearly pitches into the wall. Izzy spreads his knees to steady himself, and he bites the inside of his cheek around a noise that would tell the whole ship what they're doing. He's already fucking close. He's never needed much with Edward, but this—fuck.

There's a heavy, sticky sound—Edward bracing his foot on the floor, right in the drying puddle of rum. It's still wet enough that his foot skids on his next thrust; he catches himself by leaning over Izzy's back. He jerks his hips in a way that makes Izzy's toes curl, then shoves Izzy's shirt and vest up and presses his mouth to Izzy's skin, over one of the lash-scars that stripe Izzy from shoulder blades to hips. It's still sensitive, despite being fifteen years old or more; Edward teases at it with his lips, and then his tongue, and then the scratch of his beard, and Izzy shivers with it, every part of him on fire. He mumbles Edward's name and grasps and claws at the blankets until his knuckles flare white.

"Iz," Edward says. He's close too; Izzy can tell by the dirty, stuttering roll of his hips and the way he's raking his nails down Izzy's side, hard enough to leave marks. "What do you need? Your tits or your cock?"

Izzy opens his mouth, but nothing comes out besides a panting, gulping breath. Edward fucks in and in and in and—somehow—gives him both, pushing one hand under his shirt to toy with a nipple ring and wrapping the other hand around his cock. That puts all of Edward's weight on Izzy's back, enough that Izzy's arms give out; he collapses down to his elbows, then hides his face in the pillow because he can't swallow the desperate, whining noises that keep escaping his throat. Fuck. Fuck.

Edward's hammering into him now—too much, too much. He catches the nipple ring between two fingers and tugs, and Izzy comes, curling in on himself, his heart pounding in his throat and his blood rushing in his ears. Edward gasps as Izzy tightens up around him, and then he's coming too, finishing with a choked-off moan and a handful of sloppy, erratic thrusts that shudder into a slow grind.

A long moment passes before Edward lifts himself of Izzy's back. His bad knee pops and he makes a tight, pained sound under his breath. He runs his hand down Izzy's still-heaving side, and he straightens Izzy's shirt and vest. He laces his own pants, then rubs his thumb over Izzy's wet, aching hole, humming like he's pleased with himself, the possessive fucking bastard. Overstimulated, Izzy hisses and squirms away from it; Edward hums again before shifting down to sit on the edge of the bunk.

He waits another moment or two before saying, "I don't need you to protect me," like Izzy hasn't been doing it for nearly three fucking decades. "I don't need you to make my decisions for me."

Izzy's limbs feel like water, but he rolls onto his side so he can mutter, "Fuck off," to Edward's face. "You let me duel Bonnet."

"Let you? I—"

"You could've ordered me to stand down," Izzy points out. His pants are still bunched around his knees, and his shirt is sweat-stuck to his arms and chest and back. "You could've stepped in for him. That would've forced me to stand down, because you're my captain, and my—" He cuts off and touches the ring at his neck. "You didn't. It was easier for you to let me duel him."

"Easier," Edward repeats, flat. He stands and gives Izzy a look that's not Blackbeard but not not. "Tell me how the fuck that was easier."

Izzy—he's spent the last ten years lying to Edward if that's what it took to keep him happy, but right now, he's fucked out enough and rum-warm enough to tell him the truth for once. He says, "You were planning to kill him," and sits up, despite feeling tired and boneless. He's not having this conversation on his fucking back. "But you started to like him—too much to want him dead. But you still knew that taking over his life was your only real chance at leaving Blackbeard behind." He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "You let me duel him because it was easier than making a decision."

After a long, horrible pause, Edward growls, "You don't know me half as well as you think. You'd best stop pretending you do, or—"

"Or what? You'll cut off another one of my toes?"

Mercurial as ever, Edward swings from furious to wounded in a heartbeat; his face crumples like an unreefed sail in a doldrum. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens again and says, "Iz," like his voice is being dragged out of him.

Izzy doesn't want to hear it—not when he's just barely learned to walk again. He reaches for his stowage chest so he can grab a towel for the come leaking out of his ass and snaps, "Don't. You were smug as shit when you did it. Don't act like you regret it now just because Bonnet… sweetened you up a bit."

Another heartbeat, then another. Edward snarls, "Fuck you," and stalks out of Izzy's cabin, slamming the door behind him.



+++



"Which one of you idiots tied these?" Izzy demands, pointing at the lines for the main topsail, main topgallant, and main royal. They're secured with knots so slipshod that even calling them knots is far more generous than Izzy is feeling.

Frenchie looks at Izzy and then at the Swede; the Swede looks at Izzy and then at Frenchie. The Swede cocks his head to the side, and Frenchie quirks an eyebrow. The deck creaks under their guilty, shuffling feet. Behind them, Buttons is nattering to that stupid fucking seagull as he tightens a spoke on the helm; he's hammering shims into the gap where it feeds through the felloe to stop it from wobbling. He's fully dressed, thank fuck, but that's about all that can be said about him.

"Um… Pete?" The Swede ventures. He glances around like he expects Pete to pop out of a barrel and call him a liar. "Yes. Pete."

"It wasn't fucking Pete," Izzy snaps. Pete is a whiner, and he tends toward laziness, and Izzy has caught him in a compromising position three times in the twenty-nine hours since Bonnet's fuckwits came back aboard. But he is, for some value of the term, a sailor—enough of a sailor that he knows how to tie a knot. "It was one of you two. I assigned you the fucking job."

Frenchie jerks his thumb at the Swede. "It was him."

"Me?" the Swede asks, voice squeaking. "No. Him. It was him."

Izzy growls, "Or," and clenches his hands into fists so he doesn't pull his knife. "It was both of you."

The pair exchange another glance and shuffle their feet a little more. Finally, Frenchie admits, "It was, yeah. You said to secure the lines, so we"—he makes a vague, looping gesture—"secured them."

Slowly and deliberately, Izzy grabs the loose end on one of the lines and tugs. As the knot unravels, he says, "Secure means secure." There's a heavy, rustling noise above them—the bottom-starboard corner of the main royal unfurling as it catches the wind. "Do you have any idea what can happen if the sails open while we're at anchor?"

The Swede shakes his head. Frenchie pauses like he's considering it before saying, "Uh… not really."

Izzy makes a loop in the rope and feeds the end through it as he explains, "If the sails fill while the anchor is holding us, the strain could crack the mast. Then we're fucked." He coils the end around the length leading to the sail, feeds it back through the loop, and cinches it, tight. "If the wind comes strong enough and from the wrong direction, we could capsize. Or the anchor rode could snap, and we'd fucking be adrift."

"Oh," the Swede says faintly. "That would be bad."

"Bad," Izzy repeats, his temper flaring. He'd been stranded under a broken mast once, shortly after being press-ganged into the Navy. If another frigate hadn't come along and taken them in tow, he would've starved to death in open water at nineteen, just another corpse on a ghost ship during another war with Spain. "Yes, it would be bad. Now, you two are going to get these lines secure or—"

A throat clears behind him. He knows it's fucking Bonnet before he turns around. Bonnet has bathed since Izzy last saw him, and he's shaved the scraggly beard, but Edward tossing his posh wardrobe overboard means he's still barefoot and wearing the same dirty, tattered clothes. His hair needs cutting. Something greasy and thick has been smeared over the blisters on his face—aloe, maybe, or coconut oil.

He offers Frenchie and the Swede a disgustingly indulgent smile and says, "You two are dismissed."

"What about the ropes?" Frenchie asks.

"Mister Hands will take care of it, since he's such an expert."

Izzy scoffs right in Bonnet's stupid face. "The fuck I will."

Bonnet ignores that and gives Frenchie and the Swede another smile. He says, "Dismissed," again and waves a hand like a parent sending his children off to play. The pair immediately scatter, nearly stepping on each other in their haste to reach the main hatch and put Izzy at their backs. Bonnet waits until they've gone below before rounding on Izzy with an exasperated twist to his mouth. "I don't appreciate you antagonizing my crew."

"Your crew is fucking useless."

"As your captain," Bonnet starts, but Izzy doesn't let him finish that thought. He'd cut off the rest of his toes before deferring to Bonnet.

He sneers, "You are not my fucking captain. Edward is." Edward hasn't spoken to him since storming out of his cabin last night, but Bonnet probably doesn't know that. It wouldn't change anything if he did. "I wouldn't take an order from you if you put a knife to my throat."

Something about that—maybe the vehemence in Izzy's voice—stuns Bonnet into silence. He studies at Izzy for a few tense moments before complaining, "This is my ship," like the pompous, entitled twat he is.

"You're only on your ship because I let you on her," Izzy says, baring his teeth. "You only have a crew because I didn't kill them when Edward ordered it."

"He—" Bonnet cuts off, frowning slightly. "He wasn't… he didn't—"

"Yes, he fucking meant it," Izzy insists. Bonnet can't possibly be that stupid—not after Edward held a sword to his neck, not after he accepted Izzy's silent proposition on deck—which means he's willfully ignoring what Edward is capable of now that they're friends again. And he can't. If he's going to stay with Edward—if he's going to take Izzy's place—he needs to face it. "Your crew is alive because I disobeyed him. Remember that the next time you're wringing your hands about how I treat them."

Bonnet's whole face curdles, like the idea of owing Izzy a debt has his gut in knots. Izzy hopes it does—he hopes it fucking eats him alive. He hasn't slept a full night since he and Edward boarded the Revenge. At first, he'd been too worried about Bonnet turning Edward into someone he barely recognized, and about Bonnet's ignorance and idiocy getting Edward killed. Then Edward returned from the English alone, and Izzy had thought he'd have to watch the man he's given half his life to drink and raid himself to death. He'd been terrified he wouldn't be able to stop it.

Bonnet draws himself up and snips, "That doesn't change the fact that this is my ship. You can't let me on something I already own."

Izzy scoffs again. "You're a pirate now, Bonnet. Or you're pretending to be one. Pirates don't live by your posh, polite rules. Ownership isn't about who bought a thing, it's about who has it, and who can hold it." Buttons shouts something at the seagull; Izzy raises his voice over him as he continues, "When you came aboard, Edward possessed this ship, and he had the men and means to defend her. That made her his."

"His, perhaps," Bonnet concedes. "Not yours."

It's on the tip of Izzy's tongue to correct him—to tell him that by customs so entrenched they're practically law, everything Edward owns is Izzy's, and everything Izzy owns is Edward's. But that's their business, not Bonnet's, especially since Edward clearly hasn't bothered to tell him.

Instead, he says, "I'm Edward's second-in-command. That gives me some authority over what happens on his ship. I let you come aboard when I could've killed you in the water." Bonnet squawks in outrage and puts his hands on his hips, but Izzy doesn't give him the chance to cut in. He presses, "You showed yourself at broadside like an absolute fool," and gestures larboard. Even the most mediocre pirates know to approach a vessel of unknown temperament at the bow or stern. "That put you in range of six canons. One shot would've turned that dinghy into kindling and you and your worthless crew wouldn't have been my problem anymore."

Bonnet sniffs. "I can swim. And you might've missed."

"I might've," Izzy allows. Cannons are hardly accurate against small targets low in the water, especially the heavy, short-barreled pieces of shit mounted on the Revenge. "Or I might've waited until you were on the ladder and put my pistol in your face. Or"—he steps closer to Bonnet, smiling as Bonnet's eyes widen—"I might've waited until you were on deck and choked you with my bare hands."

"Why didn't you?" Bonnet demands. He's still wide-eyed, but he hasn't shrunk back, despite Izzy having his hand on his sword, and there's mettle in his voice. Good. He's going to need it. "You obviously despise me."

Izzy does despise him, more than he can express in words, but that's—it doesn't matter. "Edward adores you," he says, just as he had the night of Bonnet's ridiculous fuckery, "and it's my job to make sure he's content." His anger is a living thing—clawing under his ribs and at the back of his throat—but he steps back and takes his hand off his sword. It's past time he stood down. "He… he's been off his head since you left."

"So he told me," Bonnet says, sourness edging his voice and thinning his mouth. "I understand you played a significant part in that."

"Fuck you," Izzy snarls. "You weren't here. He—" He can't make himself say it: that Edward had been listless, morose, haunting the ship like a ghost when he hadn't been crying in his cabin, that Izzy had hoped provoking Blackbeard would make him forget whatever promises Bonnet had made and broken. He mutters, "You weren't here. I did what I thought I must," and turns away.

"Mister Hands," Bonnet calls after him. "You're forgetting the ropes."

"Secure them yourself. After all, it's your ship."

Bonnet sputters at that, but Izzy keeps walking toward the main hatch. It is Bonnet's ship now, at least partially; he and Edward will no doubt go back to acting as co-captains. And Bonnet undermining him so publicly only confirms something he'd begun to suspect after his argument with Edward: once they are co-captains again, he won't have a place here. Bonnet will make sure of that, and Edward—Edward probably won't fight Bonnet about it.

After he gets below deck, he heads down the passageway, past the galley and the munitions hold and the jam room. He pulls his knife from his boot and tucks it into his belt. There's one more thing he needs to do.

He finds Jacob in the storage hold he uses as a berth. Even before Bonnet's lot returned and crowded into what little space there is on the Revenge, Jacob had disliked the cramped and sweaty warren of pallets, hammocks, and stowage chests that made up the forecastle's general quarters. It's the smallest storage hold—the walls lined with shelving for dry goods and the floor piled with sacks of milled flour and wheat middlings—but it's the farthest from the livestock room. There haven't been live animals aboard since Bonnet left, but the stench of slop and pig shit still lingers at that end of the passageway.

Deserter or not, Jacob has Navy habits. The bedroll he's sitting on is neatly made, and his belongings are stowed in his ditty bag rather than strewn about. He's placed the lantern that's lighting the hold on a box, far from anything that might burn. His rapier is resting beside it, blade gleaming with a fresh coat of oil. He's mending his spare shirt when he notices Izzy at the door; he drops it in his lap as Izzy shuts it and leans back against it.

"Mister Hands," he greets. His voice is steady, but there's a nervous set to his shoulders and jaw. "Am I needed on deck?"

Izzy shakes his head. "You're needed here. We're going to have a chat, deserter to deserter. How long were you in?"

"Six years."

That's longer than Izzy expects, given that Jacob can't yet be thirty. Although Izzy himself—he's never rightly known how old he is—ended up on a frigate when he was about seventeen or eighteen. He asks, "Why?"

"I was pressed," Jacob replies. "And my commodore was a self-righteous cunt."

Izzy nods: that is what he expects. If Jacob had been accused of a crime—theft, buggery, mutiny—he would've been tossed in the brig and moved straight to a court-martial, unless his ship had been far enough from English land to warrant a deck trial. Either way, there wouldn't have been a chance to escape. He asks, "You went overboard?" and edges deeper into the hold, blocking Jacob's path to his rapier.

"We made port in Kingston, and I abandoned my watch." Jacob's eyes dart to the door. "What about you?"

"My frigate got boarded by privateers."

"You went over to the bloody Spanish?"

Izzy shrugs. "They made me a better offer. I didn't volunteer to sail for the king any more than you." He leans his elbow on a shelf, which leaves his hand inches from his knife. "Tell me about the plot."

"What plot?"

"Fuck off. I saw you muttering with the other two."

"I sided with you," Jacob insists. He glances at the door again. "When you called for lots, I sided with you."

Izzy says, "Fuck off," again. "You sided with me because you had to. You were surrounded, and I had guns on your friends." He puts a growl in his voice as he pushes, "What was the plot? You just hated him? You thought he was too tough? Too reckless? Too cruel? Too—"

"Yes," Jacob snaps, clutching at the shirt in his hands until his knuckles go white. "It's like Stump said, he's a fucking madman."

"He's been a fucking madman for over a decade," Izzy points out. He shifts his weight, and Jacob watches him do it, eyes wary and wide. "You're smarter than the other two; you wouldn't have signed on with a madman only to mutter about him being one. And you're a fair enough sailor that you didn't need to turn pirate. Merchant captains take on deserters all the time." Considering how regularly their hands disappear onto Navy frigates and ships-of-the-line, they don't have a choice. "The three of you were after something else."

Jacob opens his mouth, then closes it. Whatever denial he'd planned to make dies with a sigh. "It was the ship," he confesses. "Word was, Blackbeard stole it from some rich twat with more money than sense. Stump and Mort figured he'd pay a pretty penny to get it back."

"And then that rich twat fouled you up by coming back for it himself."

"Yes."

It's almost believable; rumors spread on these waters faster and more thoroughly than disease. The crew Edward left on the Queen Anne had turned tail the moment the English arrived at Blind Man's Cove, and fuck only knows what tales those fickle dogs have been spinning, or how those tales have been spun since.

Almost believable, but not quite. Izzy asks, "Why didn't you leave with them? You had the chance. Why didn't you take it?" When Jacob doesn't answer, he puts his hand on the grip of his knife. "Why?"

"I—" Jacob's mouth tightens. He pauses for a moment before saying, "I heard he took an Act of Grace and absconded. I thought—"

"A pardon," Izzy realizes. Desertion means the gibbet, unless the deserter renders a noble and invaluable service to the Crown. "You thought killing him or bringing him in would earn you a pardon."

Jacob bites out, "Yes," and hops up from the bedroll. He hesitates once he's on his feet—long enough for Izzy to kick a box in front of the door and move closer to the rapier. Jacob decides to keep digging his own grave by adding, "He's a fucking pirate—one of the worst who's ever lived. Seemed a fair trade for my bloody neck."

"One of the worst who's ever lived," Izzy repeats—slow, threatening. "And you thought you and two other dogs could bring him down?"

"There were two others," Jacob admits. He takes a step back, but that only traps him against a wall of shelves stocked with dried meats. "Deserters. We'd heard he might be signing on hands, but they… they lost their nerve when you came to take our marks."

If they weren't so long and so far from Nevis, Izzy would press for more information. But the Revenge left there weeks ago, which means those two cowards could be anywhere by now—on land or at sea—and they could be living and working under any names at all. He grabs Jacob's rapier; if he uses that, he won't have to clean his own knife. Jacob cringes back against the shelves and holds up his hands. Several packets of dried fish fall to the floor.

"It's over," Jacob swears. "It's done. I'll be off this ship at the next port."

"No," Izzy says, moving in. "You won't."



+++



Izzy comes back on deck as the watch is changing; Wee John is climbing up the mainmast and Ivan is climbing down. There's a chill in the night air, made brisker by a light but steady wind that's blowing in from the northwest. Ivan has a green knit cap on his head, pulled down so low that his braids are bunched at the back of his neck, and he's wearing a patched and faded greatcoat that dances around his legs as he walks. Izzy catches his attention as he's starting for the main hatch—likely headed for the card game in the jam room. He gestures him into a sweep of shadows just aft of the capstan.

Quietly, he says, "Jacob is dead."

Ivan makes a frowning, curious sound, but the only question he asks is, "Do you need help with the body?"

"No. I need you to take care of the body. It's in his berth."

"Just me, or can I get Fang?"

"Fang is fine," Izzy replies, although this late, Ivan might have to pry him away from Lucius or Pete. Or both. "None of Bonnet's lot." The last thing he needs is one of those idiots running to Bonnet and whining about having to heave a corpse overboard in the dead of night. Bonnet would undoubtedly tell Edward, and the fact that Izzy moved against Jacob so soon after they argued might make him suspicious. If Izzy's going to leave, he needs to do it clean. "Got it?"

Ivan nods, then glances at the blue-black sky. His knit cap inches up his forehead. He says, "Might wait about half an hour. Those clouds"—he points—"should be covering the moon by then."

"Fine."

As Izzy is turning away, Ivan asks, "Boss?" in a voice that's a bit too casual. He hesitates once Izzy is facing him, mouth open. Izzy braces himself for an awkward question—he's wearing his good boots, and he's carrying too many weapons for a before-bed deck check, and dumping a body isn't the kind of job he'd normally pass to someone else. But Ivan only gets as far as, "You…?" before visibly changing his mind. Instead, he mumbles, "Night, Izzy," and walks away—to the forecastle now, presumably to rouse Fang.

Izzy slips back into his cabin. Aside from his old boots—kept out of habit, but too worn down to be worth taking—the small space is stripped bare. While he'd waited for nightfall, he'd packed his things into a ditty bag. He hadn't brought much onto the Revenge: his sleep pants, his spare set of smallclothes, his extra socks, his razor, his hairbrush, a cake of soap, a few towels. He'd left most of his belongings on the Queen Anne, never imagining that everything would end up sailing away from him, including nearly all his fucking gold. He has one small pouch of coins, which he stuffs into the pocket inside his vest. It's enough to live on for about a month in a pisspot port like the Republic, although he has no intention of staying on land that long.

He creeps out of the forecastle, ditty bag in hand, moving through the patchy shadows along the starboard railing. His coins clink faintly as he walks. Otherwise, the deck is quiet as he crosses aft toward the main hatch. Buttons, thank fuck, isn't out for one of his naked frolics—maybe because the moon is just a waxing sliver, maybe because there are too many clouds in the sky, maybe because that stupid seagull seems to have abandoned him tonight. Up on the maintop, Frenchie has joined Wee John; he's sitting with his head on John's shoulder and pointing up at the stars. Under any other circumstances, Izzy would climb up the mainmast and chew John out for dereliction. But John isn't his problem anymore, and the watch being distracted tonight will work in his favor.

The hatch is standing open: more fucking dereliction. At least the screech of rusty hinges won't alert John and Frenchie to Izzy's movements, not that either of them would notice anything short of the ship being fucking boarded. The ladder creaks as Izzy heads down, enough that he grits his teeth with each step, but when he gets below deck, the passageway is empty and dark. The card game is still going—Izzy can hear laughter and voices—but the door to the jam room is closed.

Quietly, he ducks into the galley. Without a fire in the hearth, it's nearly as dark as the passageway. In the thin light coming through the portholes, he packs provisions into a second ditty bag: a full canister of hardtack, several packets of dried fish and dried beef, a week's worth of oranges, a chunk of yellow cheese wrapped in oilcloth, a tin of dried fruit that's either apricots or prunes. He considers some salt pork—he could stretch that farther than the fish or the beef—but it's miserable on its own, and he can't make stew in a dinghy, even if he steals a fucking pot.

He's grabbing a small barrel of fresh water when light flickers behind him. It's followed by footsteps—fucking Roach. So much for leaving clean. Roach pauses at the door, a lantern in one hand and a cigarillo at the corner of his mouth. Izzy bites back the urge to go for his knife. His hands are full, and he hates Roach less than the rest of Bonnet's fuckwits. Before Edward ordered the lot of them marooned, Roach had helped Izzy with his toe: cauterizing it, draining an infection from it, making poultices for the swelling and pain. And he'd done it without mentioning how or why the toe was gone or caring about the way Izzy had screamed.

Roach studies Izzy for a moment, then steps into the galley and closes the door—the door that Izzy, like a damn fool, had forgotten to close himself. He holds the lantern up a bit and asks, "Do you need a sandwich?"

"I—" Izzy starts, cut off by a sudden burst of chatter from the jam room. Jim shouts something in Spanish: Estás haciendo trampa. Sé que estás haciendo trampa. Izzy barely remembers what he'd learned while privateering—not that he'd learned all that much to begin with—but he thinks they're accusing someone of cheating. "What?"

"A sandwich," Roach prompts, smoke clouding around him. He moves to the workbench and sets the lantern down beside a stack of wooden bowls. "I'm making some for the guys. One more's all the same."

Izzy grunts, "No," and edges toward the door. He doesn't need a fucking sandwich. He needs to get out of here, and he needs to do it before Roach gives him away.

Roach points at something behind Izzy—an oilcloth-wrapped bundle on the hardtack shelf. "Take that bread. It's practically stale anyway. I was going to thicken tomorrow's porridge with it, but—" He shrugs and spits the cigarillo to the floor. "Take it."

Izzy doesn't need it—he has more than enough food for a few days—but he reaches for it anyway, hoping that Roach will stop talking if he does. Roach was right about it being stale; he feels the crust crackle and split as he stuffs it into the ditty bag. It's about half a loaf, big enough to make a bulge through the mouth of the bag, even after Izzy cinches it closed.

He's listening for voices or movement in the passageway when Roach says, "If you go now, they won't notice." He pauses to poke around in one of the cupboards—probably looking for the cheese Izzy took. Then: "They're arguing about the rules to All Fours. Oluwande plays it the island way, but it's different where Jim's from. And the Swede—he doesn't know shit about anything."

"You won't tell anyone?" Izzy asks.

Roach shrugs again. He says, "Not my business if you stay or go," and starts unwrapping a fresh loaf of bread. "I don't even know that you're going. I haven't seen you."

Izzy doesn't know what to say to that; gratitude is such an unfamiliar feeling that his gut twists like he's going to be sick. He ends up just nodding once before crossing to the door. He has to juggle the ditty bags and water barrel to free one hand long enough to turn the handle. Jim shouts again—Eres un idiota!—but the passageway is still empty and dark and the door to the jam room is still closed. He walks to the hatch and climbs up the ladder. The extra weight from the water and provisions makes it creak twice as loudly as before.

The deck is still quiet—no Buttons, no fucking seagull. Like Ivan suspected, the moon is mostly hidden behind a bank of clouds. Frenchie is still on the maintop, distracting John from his watch. They're facing larboard and turned a bit fore; Izzy loads his water barrel and ditty bags into the dinghy stowed starboard and aft.

Someone shouts as he's heaving it off the davits—Fang, calling out to Frenchie and John from the bottom of the mainmast. Izzy hears the rise and fall of his voice, but the words are lost to the wind. He shrinks back into the shadows cast by some barrels, only to bump into a bulky shape that grunts and jerks when Izzy steps on his foot: Ivan. He's traded the knit cap for a scarf that's as dark as the sky, and his greatcoat is buttoned to the neck, hiding the white stripes on his shirt.

Before Izzy can say anything—not that he can say anything; he's fucking caught—Ivan holds up a hand. He looks over at Fang and Frenchie and John, then looks back at Izzy and whispers, "You need help, Boss?"

Izzy—his gut twists again. He swallows the uncomfortable feeling rising in his throat and nods. Working the pulleys is a two-man job. He could manage it on his own—he's done it plenty of times before—but having Ivan's help will make it go faster and cut down on the noise.

By the time they get the dinghy in the water, Fang is halfway up the mainmast. He's clutching the rigging with one hand and using the other to point at the sky. A lull in the wind lets Izzy hear some of what he's saying—something about the fucking placement of the stars, like most of them aren't shrouded by clouds. Izzy's unwilling to push his luck any farther, so he doesn't waste time looking for the ladder. He puts one foot on the lip of the gunwale, then levers himself up and swings his leg over the railing.

As he's about to drop down into the dinghy, Ivan catches his arm in a firm grip just below his elbow. It's a greeting between sailors who haven't seen each other in some time, but it's also a farewell between sailors who know they probably won't see each other again. Izzy barely has a chance to return it before Ivan turns away, doing Izzy the favor of not watching him go. He jumps into the dingy. The oars clatter, and the dinghy rocks against the ship's hull with a dull thud.

The current is a bit more favorable than it had been yesterday; with hard rowing, Izzy could reach the Republic in three days. But if Edward bothers to look for him, that will be the first place he goes. As someone shouts up on deck—maybe Ivan—Izzy decides to head for a ribbon of island that's less than a day south. If he drags the dinghy inland and stays in the trees, he can hide out there until Edward moves on.

He pushes one oar against the hull to point the dinghy in the right direction, then maneuvers around the stern and puts the Revenge to his back.



+++



The Serpent makes port at the Republic of Pirates just before noon, tacking against a headwind intent on blowing her back out to sea. The sun is high and hot in a brilliant, nearly-cloudless sky; Izzy is sweating as he stands at the larboard railing and watches the crew drop anchor and throw out mooring lines. He stretches as he waits, bracing his arms on the railing and curling over between them, his chin to his chest. He'd paid for his passage in trade rather than gold, and it's been a long time since he's worked the ropes from sunup to sundown—a long time since he's touched a rope except to show some idiot what he's doing wrong, or in an all-hands situation like a storm. A sullen ache has taken root in his shoulders and is slowly crawling its way down his back. But it's a good feeling, better than lolling around on that island, useless and idle. He'd been there five or six days before the Serpent came along; he'd nearly gone out of his mind.

The bulky shadow that cuts across Izzy's side can only be Captain Johnston. He's a big, boisterous bear of a man—a head a half taller than Izzy, with a booming voice and a potbelly that strains the buttons on his coat. He's about Izzy's age, as far as Izzy can tell; his long hair and close-cropped beard have as much gray as Izzy's own. The sword he carries is a great two-handed thing harnessed over his shoulder—meant for defending his deck by sheer force, not dueling.

He leans one elbow on the railing and says, "Basilica," in a rumbling greeting before barking, "Ready a gangplank," at the crew. As they scurry to comply, he turns back to Izzy and asks, "Are you sure you won't reconsider? You're a good hand. If I had five hands as good as you, I could put half these louts over the side."

"No," Izzy replies. Johnston had offered to sign him on permanently his second day aboard, but he can't stomach the idea of sailing for someone else. That, and the risk is too high. He's been Blackbeard's right hand too long not to be recognized eventually, either on the ship or on shore, and there's always a chance that Edward might be looking for him. "I appreciate it, but I need to find my mates."

"You really think they'll wash up here?"

"They might," Izzy says, shrugging. Johnston had assumed Izzy had been shipwrecked—or he'd at least been willing to assume that—and it had seemed safer to hold to that story, even if Izzy having his belongings and a stock of provisions made it weaker than a frayed line. "This is the closest port to where we went down."

After a pause, Johnston says, "Might stay here a day or two," in a thoughtful voice. "Might as well see what's on offer." He'd been making for Grand Bahama when Izzy hailed him—Izzy had slipped him a bit of gold for changing his heading—but the detour could be profitable for him. Even the most honest merchant captains take on pirated goods from time to time, if the price is right and the risk is low. "If you change your mind before I weigh anchor, my offer stands."

Izzy says, "I appreciate it," again, just as one of the hands shouts, "Ready to go ashore!"

He hefts his ditty bag over his shoulder, but before he can turn away, Johnston stops him by burring, "Basilica," serious and low. "I've been at sea most of my life. I know a pirate when I see one. You wouldn't be the first one I've taken on. I believe every man deserves a chance to start over."

Izzy tenses. "Captain—"

Johnston waves him off. He says, "I've never met a pirate who chose it, not really."

Izzy thinks—bitterly—of Bonnet, who treats pirating like a fucking lark when Izzy had run away to sea to escape drudgery and abuse and Edward had done it to escape his father's corpse. Izzy might've chosen to leave the workhouse and stow away on a merchant brig, but every decision he's made since getting press-ganged has been needs-must at best. Going over to the Spanish had spared him a life in the Navy, and signing on with Hornigold had spared him from working every day beside a bunch of fucking Spaniards who'd hated him for being English. The only other real choice he's ever had was Edward—he'd said yes when Edward offered him matelotage, and he'd stayed with Edward after Hornigold died instead of taking one of the bastard's ships for himself.

"Think it over," Johnston continues. "You're experienced and capable. I wouldn't need more than a month or two to raise you to quartermaster without these other louts muttering. Not when the one I have is a drunk." He slants Izzy a sideways glance. "I don't suppose Basilica is your real name."

"No," Izzy admits. Basilica is his middle name—according to the matrons at the workhouse, at least, but they hadn't bothered much with shit like records, and they hadn't cared enough to tell him anything about himself except that his mother was dead. He's not even sure if Israel is his first name. "It's Izzy Hands."

Johnston makes a startled, blustering noise, but he doesn't step back or reach for his sword. He slants Izzy another glance and ventures, "Your… captain—I expect he's looking for you."

That makes Izzy's chest ache, but saying, "Yeah," is easier than the truth.

There's a pause; Johnston frowns at the dirty bustle of the Republic for a moment, then raps his knuckles on the railing. He says, "I weigh anchor in two days, Mister Hands. If you're aboard by then, then you're part of my crew. It's not my business who you've worked for."

It's an honorable response—stupid, but honorable. It prompts Izzy to do something he's only done two or three times in the last decade. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a silver coin the size of his thumb. It's bubble-marred and misshapen because the only silversmith in the Republic is a runaway apprentice and a fraud besides, but the raised X on either side is unmistakably Blackbeard's mark.

He gives Johnston the coin and explains, "If you're ever boarded, show them this." It won't save the ship or any goods from being seized, but it will spare Johnston's life. "Any pirate on these waters knows what it means."

With that, Izzy heads for the gangplank. It's secured as well as can be, given that the wind is still buffeting the ship; it sways and creaks as Izzy crosses onto the dock. Behind him, Johnston starts barking orders at his crew, telling them how many days he plans to stay in port and exactly how little trouble he intends to tolerate. His tirade follows Izzy until he steps on land, where a sagging building hugging the dock—a warehouse by the look of it—blocks his voice. It also blocks the worst of the wind. After a few more steps, the stench of dirt and piss and day-old fish hits Izzy like a slap to the face.

Like most pirate ports, the Republic is a filthy, chaotic cesspit. Pigs run loose, feeding on whatever slop they can find, and the water coming from the handful of pumps is yellowish and foul. Unless a knife is sticking from a back or gut or throat, it's impossible to tell if the men lying in the street are drunk or dead. There is no main road or central district; the shacks and squats are just grouped together however they happened to have been built, often set beside each other closely and at odd angles. That makes it difficult to navigate, especially for newcomers, but Izzy has been to Spanish Jackie'z at least twenty times in the five or so years since it opened.

He turns down the first alley he comes to, careful to avoid the wheel-ruts and pig shit and puddles of muck. He passes a chandler selling candles and tallow soap and a bladesmith with poorly-tempered knives hanging in his window. Outside a dry good store farther down, two men are arguing over what appears to be a sack of beans. Another turn: Izzy walks by a second bladesmith with slightly better wares and a fishmonger too far from the waterfront to do much business. After that, he comes to a pair of brothels facing each other across a passage so narrow that the whores sitting at the upstairs windows are chatting above his head. One calls down—Hey, honey!—but Izzy ignores her. He's not interested anyway, but the last time he paid for a woman's time, he ended up in the fucking Navy.

Spanish Jackie'z is crouched on the corner where that passage meets two other alleys and a broad street that circles back toward the docks. The skeleton is still guarding the door; below it, a drunk is passed out in the mud, his back to the wall and a bottle of rum in his lap. Inside, the air is stuffy and dank. The crowd is thin this early and mostly older dogs, a few chatting in twos and threes and a few more nodding off into their glasses alone. A new nose jar is sitting on the bar. It has maybe six or seven noses it in, floating in juice that's an unsettling orangish-pink.

Izzy doesn't recognize the guy behind the bar; Jackie must've married him after he came in to meet with those Navy twats. He's younger and blonder than Jackie usually goes for, but she's probably having trouble finding takers now that she's lost two husbands in such a short amount of time. As Izzy approaches, Blondie pauses where he's wiping down dirty glasses with a dirtier rag. A nick of a scar is splitting one of his eyebrows. He looks Izzy over with a glib, unimpressed twist to his mouth.

After leaving Izzy to wait another moment, he asks, "Can I help you?" like it's the last thing on earth he wants to do.

Izzy is tempted to slit his smart-mouthed throat: if nothing else, it'll save Jackie the trouble of teaching him some manners. But he'd like to keep his nose, so he says, "I need to talk to Jackie," instead.

Blondie scoffs. "Jackie doesn't just see people."

"She'll see me."

"That so?"

Jackie rescues Blondie from that slit throat by coming up behind him and saying, "Yeah. I'll see him." She points Izzy to a stool with her wooden hand, then puts her mouth to Blondie's ear and whispers something that widens his eyes and tightens his smirking mouth. He scurries away, and Jackie turns back to Izzy and glares. "You got some nerve, Israel Hands. Your fucking boss was in here three days ago, asking if I'd seen you."

Izzy—he honestly hadn't expected Edward to come after him. He asks, "Yeah?" in a tight voice and gestures for a bottle of rum.

"Yeah," Jackie replies. She sets the rum on the bar and makes a tch sound when Izzy takes a swig straight from the bottle. "He kicked up all kinds of fuss. If he wasn't motherfucking Blackbeard, I woulda cut off his nose. I told him you hadn't been around, and now you're in here making Jackie a liar."

"You didn't lie." Izzy takes another swig of rum. "When he asked you, I hadn't been around."

Jackie tches again. "Cut the shit. Something's going on. And you're paying for that." She points at the rum. "I'm not selling it to someone else after your mouth's been all over it."

Izzy scoffs—like she doesn't sell juice made from fingers and noses and ears, like the floor in here isn't filthy and the corpse of her favorite husband isn't in the back room—but he grabs a coin from the pouch in his vest and tosses it on the bar. It's much more than a bottle of too-sweet homebrew rum is worth, but he figures he owes her the difference, between that horseshit with the Navy and bringing Edward down on her head.

She takes the coin, bites it, and finds it satisfactory enough to slip under her ruffled collar. It clinks against whatever else she has stashed between her tits as she asks, "I'm guessing you left him? He wouldn't've been in here fussing if he'd fired you."

"I left, yeah."

Jackie says, "Huh," and grabs the rag Blondie left on the bar. She uses it to lift the chimney on the closest lantern, then holds the gone-cold cigar in her wooden hand up to the flame. She puffs smoke for a moment before asking, "This got anything to do with that blond twat you wanted the Navy to kill? The one who broke my damned nose jar?"

"He was in here too?" Izzy asks, surprised.

"He tried to be," Jackie replies, her mouth full of smoke. "I told him he had to wait outside, or I was for real taking his nose this time."

Edward must've loved that. Izzy says, "They're… friends now," with a disgusted curl to his lip. He knows it's more than that, but—even after everything—he's unwilling to put all of Edward's private business on the market. Jackie's never met information she wouldn't trade or sell, and he's already giving her far too much just by being in here. "He's incompetent, and insufferable, and… it's time I moved on."

Jackie tugs the rum out of his hand, then drinks from the bottle like she hadn't just complained about his mouth being on it. She asks, "Moved on, huh?" with a slow curl in her voice. "You done with him for good?"

Just thinking it hurts, but Izzy makes himself say, "Yeah."

She murmurs, "Huh," again and arches one eyebrow. "That mean you're finally gonna to come to your senses and marry Jackie?" When Izzy just huffs at her and reaches for the rum, she crosses her arms. "I've never asked a man more than once, Hands, and here I've asked your scrawny ass three times."

"You don't want me," Izzy says honestly. It's not a bad offer: she's been a good friend these last few years, and he respects the life she's built for herself here, and he's sure they'd find a way to have fun together, even though he prefers men. But he'd go out of his mind here, trapped in a tavern he hates and sitting idle, just biding his time until she needs him to kill someone or it's his turn in her bed. "I don't know how to live on land."

One of the old dogs staggers up to the bar, an empty glass in his hand. Blondie—after shooting a nervous look at Jackie and Izzy—hails him from where he's been lurking near the ear jar by lifting a hand and blurting, "I'll help you down here."

Jackie spares them half a glance before leaning closer to Izzy and asking, "You think you can live at sea without Blackbeard around?" in serious tone—serious, and uncharacteristically gentle. "You two've been together a long time. I mean, from way back. Before all the"—her wooden hand clicks as she waves it—"smoke and mirrors."

"Yeah," Izzy replies, more decisively than he feels. "I figure I'll try striking out on my own." Jackie helps herself to more of his rum, and that reminds him to ask about Calico Jack. If he survived Blind Man's Cove, this is the first place he'd wash up. "You haven't seen Rackham around, have you?"

"That drunk? The fuck do you want with him?"

"I need a sailing partner."

Jackie scoffs. "You're gonna to have hard luck finding a crew. Word is, he's been mutinied against three times this year, and it's made him crazier than ever. When I threw him out of here, he was yelling some wild shit about a seagull and a cannonball."

Izzy rolls his eyes; he doesn't know what happened to Jack out there, but seagull probably means fucking Buttons. He clarifies, "They'd be sailing for me." He's not fucking Blackbeard, but people know him—know of him. He can probably get a crew together on his own hook. "Rackham would be sailing for me too. I want a first mate I can trust, and he—" He shrugs. "He won't screw me too badly."

That earns him another eyebrow. Jackie says, "You're the crazy one, if you're thinking Rackham's gonna go for that."

Izzy shrugs again. "He just might." Jack is a fuck-up, but he has the sea in his blood and his bones; he doesn't know how to live on land anymore than Izzy. "It'll get him out of this pisspot town and back aboard a ship. When was he in here?"

"A week, maybe? It was a few days before Blackbeard showed up." Jackie puffs the cigar one last time before dropping the butt in a nearly-empty glass of what looks like finger juice. "I told him I didn't want him back in here for month."

Izzy grabs the rum again, but decides against it when the bottle is halfway to his mouth. If he's going to make a deal with Jack, one of them needs to sober, and—knowing Jack—it'll have to be him.

He pushes the bottle away and asks, "Does he still have his nose?"

"Yeah," Jackie grumbles. "He started crying and shit, and I didn't want it all salty and wet. It makes the juice taste bad." Izzy snorts at that, but she doesn't rise to it beyond a twist to her mouth. After a pause, she says, "I like you, Hands, even if you won't let me make an honest man out of you. I like you enough to do you a favor."

"Yeah?" Izzy asks, guarded. They might be friends, but she almost always has an angle. "What kind of favor?"

"You need a crew." Jackie recorks the rum bottle and puts it back on the fucking shelf, just like he knew she would. "I might know where you can find some guys who're between ships."

"Mutineers?"

"Boarded. Went for a swim instead of going to the Dutch."

"I'm listening."

"It'll cost you," she says, her voice all business again. "Not even Jackie's husbands get favors for free."

Izzy supposes that's fair. He smiles and tosses a couple more coins on the bar.



+



Izzy gets lost. Twice.

The first time, he misses a turn and ends up halfway across town, all because Jackie gives lousy directions. She'd told him to head west at a sailmaker's, but she hadn't mentioned which sailmaker, or that there are three sailmakers on the same fucking street: all just yards apart from each other, all at the mouth of an alley that leads west. The second time, a brawl bursts through the doors of a music hall as he's searching for a statue of Saint Elmo that marks another turn south. It spills into the street—seven or eight guys, a mix of pirates and locals armed with knives and broken bottles—and Izzy skirts past it without looking at the lump of stone at his left. He finally does find it after circling the street so many times that a fruit vendor hawking withered oranges moves her pushcart away from him, but it's scarcely recognizable. It's been pat on the head by so many luck-seeking sailors over so many years that the pointed hat has been rounded down and the facial features have been worn away.

On his third try, he finds The Mainbrace down a warren of muddy footpaths close to the docks. It's smaller and shittier than Spanish Jackie'z, wedged between the kind of chemist that sells snake-oil cures and keeps a large stock of laudanum, and a flophouse that isn't exactly a brothel but won't complain if a boarder brings back company if the bribe is right. There's no sign on the door; Izzy only realizes he's found the place when a man staggers out, empty bottle in hand, and collapses into a wet pile of rubbish and food scraps that's probably the flophouse's midden. The man groans—first because his head hits the ground, then because a pig runs up to snuffle at his muck-covered feet.

Inside, The Mainbrace is hazy and dark. Only half the lanterns are lit, and the low, sagging ceiling is pushing a fog of tobacco smoke down into the crowd. It has more custom than Spanish Jackie'z had had when he left, although it's later in the day now; he lost about two hours wandering around this godforsaken shithole. Just beyond the door, he steps on something soggy—a rag tossed over a puddle of what he hopes is rum. He grits his teeth; he fucking hates being on land. The Republic isn't the worst pirate port in the Caribbean—that dubious honor goes to either Tortuga or Gonâve—but he'd rather be on a sinking ship than spend more than a few hours in it.

But he needs a crew, so he kicks the rag away and moves deeper into the tavern. He glances around, looking for a tall, thin Jamaican named Jevaun. According to Jackie, he has a scar across his nose and a nearly-shaved head, and he'd been the boatswain on the Annabelle before the Dutch brought her down. He's been working at The Mainbrace while waiting for another ship. It's been over a month, likely because the five survivors want to sign on together: Jevaun, a French-born helmsman named Sébastien, and three swabs Jackie hadn't described. Evidently, there had been six survivors, but after two weeks ashore, the ship's carpenter had decided to go back home to Trinidad.

Izzy doesn't see him; the three employees minding the tables are women, and the guy behind the bar is a short, red-haired fuck with wooden beads worked into his long beard. He glances around again, debating whether he should come back later or buy a drink and wait, and spots a familiar face at a table near the back door—Calico Jack. Maybe God smiles on fools after all. Jack appears to be sleeping: his legs sprawled, his head tipped back against the wall, his hat pulled down over his eyes. Izzy makes his way toward him, edging around another sleeping drunk, a game of bones that looks like it could get violent at any moment, and an old dog boring one of the barmaids to tears with a fish-tale about fighting seven Portuguese privateers at once. Jack is snoring, and he has one hand on a rum bottle drained just past the neck. He startles awake as Izzy pulls up a chair beside him—enough that his hat flops off his head and into his lap.

He mumbles, "What…?" and blinks like the sconce flickering over Izzy's shoulder is brighter than the sun. "Izzy? Is that you? Or am I dreaming?" He shakes himself like a wet dog. "Nah, if I was dreaming, you'd have your pretty tits out."

"You're not dreaming, Rackham."

Jack huffs. "You could still take your tits out."

Whatever happened to Jack after the Navy showed up, he must've broken his nose. It's crooked now, and the skin under his eyes is mottled with fading bruises, so yellow they're nearly green. Dried blood is streaked down the front of his shirt, but the stains are washed out, like he went into the water right after he bled.

"You look like shit," Izzy observes.

"No thanks to you. That nut with the fucking seagull almost killed me."

Izzy doesn't ask what that means. He has a fair idea anyway—fucking Buttons—and Jack can turn a trip to the shitter into a sob story if given enough yarn to spin. Instead, he says, "You survived."

"I'll drink to that." Jack grabs the rum and knocks back a long, sloppy mouthful. After wiping his chin with the back of his hand, he asks, "How'd it shake out with the English? They kill that big frilly gal for you? I woke up drifting on what was left of my dinghy and that crazy ship was gone."

Izzy hadn't known Jack was still in the water when he took over the Revenge—he hadn't heard anything about Jack at all until Frenchie mentioned his dinghy sinking in passing some weeks after Edward came back. If he had known, he would've brought Jack aboard. If nothing else, Jack's constant buffoonery might've kept Bonnet's idiots from trying to mutiny on him. It might've also pulled Edward out of his head without turning him into a cruel mockery of Blackbeard.

But if wishes were wings, Izzy wouldn't be sitting in this shitty tavern right now. He sighs and says, "No."

"Oh, man." Jack grabs the rum again, but Izzy tugs it out of his hand. He seems more tired than drunk, and Izzy needs him to stay that way. He grunts and shows some teeth, but he says, "I've been hearing that Blackie took a commission," instead of fighting Izzy about it. "I didn't want to believe it."

There's an angry shout from the bones game, and Izzy waits a beat or two to see if it's going to come to blows or knives. When it doesn't, he leans closer to Jack and admits, "He did, yeah. But only to save Bonnet's skin. He skipped out a few days later. They both did. They're—" He swallows around a rough noise. "They're back on the Revenge now."

"Together?" Jack asks. Izzy nods, and Jack's eyebrows dart for his hairline. "C'mon. You're telling me Blackie threw you over for that ponce?"

Izzy says, "No," then grabs the rum, wipes the lip of the bottle with his sleeve, and has a drink. It's been watered, probably to keep the bottle looking full. Jack must be skint now that he's been ashore so long; napping in a place like this is cheaper than renting a room, and the barmaids mostly won't bother him about it as long as his drink doesn't run out. "I left."

Jack stares at him for a moment—his mouth open, his greasy hair hanging in his face. Then: "Well, God damn. I never thought you'd be the one to shove off. How'd he take it?"

Izzy just shrugs, and Jack's eyebrows dart for his hairline again.

"You didn't tell him?"

"No."

Jack grunts out a surprised sound and shakes his head. "God damn. I always figured you two'd sail the distance. Even when Hornigold put me and Blackie on the Marianne together and we were—" He cuts off with a crude gesture that sets Izzy's teeth on edge: like he wants to think about that right now. "He had me in his bed every night, and all he ever did was bitch about you not being there with us."

That had been a hard year—probably the worst of Izzy's life. With Edward commanding the Marianne and Jack acting as his second, Izzy had been stuck on the La Concorde with fucking Hornigold. Edward's promotion had made Bellamy Hornigold's first mate, but the La Concorde was big enough that he and Izzy had more or less split the responsibility, not that Hornigold had given Izzy any credit for it. Convinced that Izzy had been plotting against him—that he'd been poisoning Edward against him—Hornigold had berated Izzy at every opportunity and whipped him for the slightest provocations. Slitting the old bastard's throat in the middle of a mutiny had felt like repayment in kind, but it hadn't given him back the year or so he'd spent only seeing Edward the handful of times Hornigold's fleet had made port.

He'd known Edward had missed him; when the fleet had make port, he'd dragged Izzy to the closest inn or flophouse and fucked him for two days straight, barely letting him out of bed long enough to eat or take a piss. But for some reason, hearing it from Jack—of all fucking people—has something sharp and painful gnawing under Izzy's ribs. But he—it doesn't matter. He left, and he's not going back: not until Bonnet is dead or gone.

He reaches for the rum again as Jack asks, "What're you gonna do? Sign on with someone else?"

Just thinking about that—about giving that much of himself to someone besides Edward—makes Izzy feel sick. He says, "No," again, his voice biting. "I'm thinking of striking out on my own. I've got a lead on a crew." He gives Jack a pointed look as he adds, "I could use a first mate."

Jack pauses for the few moments it takes for his rum-soaked brain to understand what Izzy's asking. Once he does, he snorts like a bull and gives Izzy the finger. "Fuck off, Hands. I'm a captain."

"Sure, you're a captain," Izzy says dismissively. He'd expected this, even before Jackie brought it up; captains could be touchy as fuck. "How long's it been since you had your own ship, Rackham? At least three mutinies ago, yeah?"

Jack's eyes go wide and wet. He opens his mouth and sputters a little, but he only gets as far as, "You," before Izzy shuts him up by returning the finger.

He snaps, "Don't waste my time with that fake crying shit," and pushes the rum across the table. Jack drinks loudly and thirstily, but it's watered enough that it won't hurt. As he's setting the bottle down, Izzy asks, "Do you want to stay in this shithole forever? Sleeping in taverns and—" He frowns. Jack looks tired and thin, and he has dirt smudged on his arms and face and neck. "When's the last time you bathed? Or ate?"

"Fuck you, Hands," Jack grumbles. "If you wanna henpeck someone, go back to Blackie. I don't fucking need it." There's a pause; two tables over, the old dog has moved on from killing seven Portuguese privateers and is now telling a different barmaid about finding Captain Kidd's lost loot on an island off one of the American colonies. Jack turns his hat around in his hands a few times before conceding, "'Course I wanna get out of here. But I—"

"You don't have a ship," Izzy cuts in. "Or a crew."

Jack bristles at that, mouth twisting, but then the fight goes out of him with a sigh. He drops his hat on the table and asks, "You said you got a lead on a crew?"

"Five guys," Izzy explains. He wishes the sixth hadn't left—carpenters, like cooks and surgeons, are worth their weight in gold. "A boatswain, a helmsman, and three swabs. They've already worked together a few years." That much familiarity could mean trouble if one or two of them decide to mutter, but it's a risk Izzy is willing to take. "They got boarded by the Dutch and went over the side instead of kneeling."

"And they're in?"

"I haven't talked to them yet," Izzy admits. Jack snorts again—louder than before—but Izzy just gives him the finger again. "They won't say no. Word is, they've been stuck on shore for over a month. They want to sign on together, but they can't find a ship that'll take all five of them. I will."

After another pause—and another, angrier shout from the bones game—Jack says, "Alright. What about a ship?"

"I saw a couple well-fitted periaguas down at the docks. If we—"

"Periaguas? You mean—" Jack makes a rowing motion that almost knocks over the rum. "You wanna run Hornigold's old trick? Ambush a ship at anchor?"

"It worked for him," Izzy replies, shrugging.

"Yeah, but…" Jack trails off and scratches at his burned arm, his mouth moving like he's choosing his next words. There's another shout from the bones game; Izzy eases his knife from his belt in case a fight starts and they have to stab their way to the door. Jack—after watching Izzy do it—does the same. He lays his on the table as he says, "You and Blackie," in a careful voice. "You're matelots, right? I mean… you said the words and everything, yeah?"

Izzy swallows hard. "Yeah."

"And you said you left without telling him. So, you two didn't actually"—Jack slashes the air with his hand—"cut anchor?"

"No." Izzy just stops himself from touching the ring at his throat. "Why?"

"Half his shit is yours," Jack points out. "Isn't that how matelotage works? Sharing incomes and inheriting… inheriting something? I don't remember. I never wanted to do it myself. Seemed too—" He makes a vague gesture and shrugs. "What I'm saying is, you don't need to ambush a ship. You can demand one from Blackie as your due."

Izzy—he hadn't thought about it like that. He hadn't wanted to think about it like that. He still doesn't. Besides, Edward doesn't even have his own ship anymore. He says, "The Revenge is Bonnet's."

"What about the Queen Anne?"

"She's gone," Izzy says. "She slipped out of Blind Man's Cove as soon as the English showed up." He'd made too many mistakes when he cut that deal with the fucking Navy, including not warning the worthless louts on the Queen Anne. If he had, they might not have panicked at the sight of a ship-of-the-line that hadn't even been after them. "Ed left Dareem in charge, so he's probably captain now. Unless Horace killed him for it."

Jack laughs. "Fucking Horace. He'd kill anyone for a piece-of-eight." He taps his dirty fingers on the table as he continues, "Doesn't have to be a ship. Blackie's got—"

"No," Izzy snaps. "I don't need Ed's fucking money." He doesn't want it—the twenty-seven years they shared isn't a fucking debt to be paid off. "I'm finding a ship, rowing out to her, and taking her over. Are you in?"

Jack barely hesitates before muttering, "Hell," and reaching for the rum. Between the two of them, the bottle is nearly half-empty now. If Jack tries watering it again, it won't be dark enough to fool the barmaids. "I'm in. You're an asshole, but working for you's gotta be less of a bitch than being stuck here. When"—he burps—"do we shove off?"

"I still need to talk to the crew," Izzy says. He glances at the bar: still no Jevaun. He'll try again later tonight, after the evening crowd starts rolling in. He stands, fishes a few coins out of his vest, and sets them on the table. "Get a room next door and something to eat. I'll find you."

"You're not gonna stay with me?" Jack asks, all fake sadness and sly mouth. "You know I hate sleeping alone."

Izzy scoffs.

"C'mon." Jack wraps a hand around the back of Izzy's thigh and tugs him closer, putting him right between his spread legs. Izzy should stab him for how bad he smells alone. "We had fun that one time, yeah?"

"That was fifteen years ago," Izzy points out. Fifteen year ago, and Edward had been there, which had made it—Izzy doesn't know what that had made it.

"You still got those rings in your tits?" Jack asks, leaning in. "Pulling on 'em still make you scream?"

Izzy bites out, "Jack," and grabs a handful of Jack's greasy hair. It's a mistake: heat flashes in Jack's eyes, and he tightens his grip of Izzy's thigh. Edward had described Jack as inevitable once—and he'd sure as fuck felt inevitable the night he and Edward had split Izzy open—but Izzy doesn't need this right now. And he's not sure he wants it, even if his cock is starting to fill. He takes a step back before he gets any harder and Jack gets any more ideas. He starts to tell Jack to fuck off, but what comes out of his mouth is, "Take a fucking bath."

Jack laughs and laughs and laughs.



+



"Captain," Jack greets, with more humor in his voice than Izzy appreciates. He drops down to sit beside Izzy in the sand and balances the lantern he's holding on a patch of scrub near Izzy's knee. It hisses and sputters like it needs more oil—oil they don't fucking have. "Any word?"

Izzy glances at Sébastien, who's sitting a few feet away and muttering to himself in French as he works out some calculations on a scrap of paper. Spread out beside him, in the light of their other dying lantern, is a wrinkled copy of the most recent Lloyd's Register. He'd picked out five likely ships before Izzy's crew left the Republic, but the voyage here—the west side of Andros Island—took two days longer than expected. Of all the periaguas at the Republic's docks, they'd stolen the one closest to open water, but she'd also been the least guarded, probably because she has a list to her mast and a slow leak at her stern.

"Nothing yet," Izzy replies.

Jack spends a few moments digging in the sand with the handle of his whip. He's been drinking less since they set out—mainly because the periagua is too small to carry much more than they strictly need—and it's making him restless and fidgety, like he doesn't know what to do with his hands now that he doesn't always have a bottle in one of them.

A wave crashes against the shore as he says, "Water's alright, but we're getting low on food."

"Yeah." Jevaun had mentioned it earlier, like Izzy hadn't already known. He might be a captain now, but old habits die hard. He can't stop himself from inspecting the ship and checking the gear and counting the supplies. "If we can't take a ship tonight, we'll head back to the Republic and restock."

"Might try the east side first," Jack ventures, still digging in the sand. Izzy had chosen the west side for privacy; it's too dry and barren to support even the smallest of villages. It's also along the primary shipping lane to Cuba, since the east side is closer to Nassau than most merchants dare to sail. But now they have nowhere to trade. "There's gotta be some fishermen or something over where it's greener."

It's not a bad idea. Coasting around the northern tip of the island would only take half a day, and finding a farmer or fisherman willing to trade for gold would spare them going back to the Republic so soon after stealing the periagua. The previous owners are probably still stranded there and might be eager to fight to get her back, leaky and prone to drifting as she is. By Izzy's count, they still have a good five days of food left, but he's already up to his neck in risk: heading out with a crew he barely knows on a vessel that's only marginally seaworthy. He's not going to press his luck any further.

He says, "First light, we'll try the east side," and looks down the shoreline.

The periagua is beached just past Sébastien. Marco and Tómas—Spanish deserters who are either brothers or cousins; Izzy can't remember what primo means—have her careened and are carrying out the tasks Jack gave them earlier. Marco is rubbing soot on the periagua's reefed sail so that the exposed bits of white canvas don't catch the moonlight. At the stern, Tómas is pounding oakum into a split board, although Izzy's certain the leak is from wood-rot, which is a bigger problem than oakum can fix. A few feet inland, Jevaun is cleaning and sharpening their too small cache of weapons; he has everything but Jack's whip and Izzy's sword laid out on a torn-open sack. The other swab is with him: a short Jamaican woman named Abigay who might be the deadliest fighter from the Annabelle's surviving crew. She's complaining to Jevaun about one of the rapiers in Patois; Izzy doesn't understand her, but she's holding it flat in the palm of her hand like she's unhappy with the way it's balanced.

Another wave crashes against the shore. Sébastien blurts, "Finalement," and jumps to his feet. He hurries over to crouch in front of Izzy and Jack. "Captain Hands, I have found it."

"A ship?" Izzy asks.

"Three ships," Sébastien clarifies, passing Izzy the Lloyd's Register. "They leave from St. Augustine at the right time to drop anchor—"he points west-by-northwest—"just there."

Izzy barely glances at the Lloyd's Register; the light is poor, and he doesn't read all that well. He learned in the Navy, but only enough to take inventories and leave simple notes in the log. "Tell me."

"The schooner, she makes for Havana," Sébastien explains. "She will be more…" His mouth works as he tries to find the right word. "Out. She will be more out in the water, oui? The sloops—one makes for Santiago de Cuba, the other for Kingston." He points again as he adds, "They come closer to us. Much closer."

The schooner is tempting—more guns, more loot—but they'd be outnumbered at least four-to-one, and they don’t have enough men to sail her, even if all of them survive. Izzy decides, "One of the sloops," and gets to his feet.

Jack—still sprawled in the sand—calls, "Everyone up! Get her back in the water and ready to put to sea!" As the crew scrambles to comply, he stands, leans into Izzy, and asks, "A sloop?" with his mouth right against Izzy's ear. "That's gonna get us six guns. Maybe eight. You really wanna aim small?"

"We can mount more guns," Izzy points out. Jack is too close—too fucking close—but Izzy refuses to step back. He's not giving Jack the fucking satisfaction. "Even if we can take the schooner, we don't have the hands to sail her."

"Might take on crew."

"Might, Rackham. We might." A schooner needs fifteen hands at minimum. Assuming they'll find eight merchant sailors eager to turn pirate after watching their deck get bloodied is a bigger bet than Izzy is willing to make. And he won't force anyone to sail for him; he knows from experience that pressed men are basically fucking useless. "We're taking one of the sloops. If you don't fucking like it, you can stay here."

Jack huffs out a laugh. "Nah. I'm not leaving you. I wanna get back in your ass too bad." Izzy shows him some teeth for that, but he just leans in closer and says, "C'mon, Captain," low and dirty. His knuckles graze Izzy's hip. "Let's go get you a pretty little sloop."

And then he's gone—hooking his whip onto his belt as he trudges across the sand and leaving Izzy standing there, half-hard and seething. The periagua goes into the water with a wet scrape and the heavy slaps of waves hitting wood. Jack's voice rises and falls as he gives more orders: haul anchor, secure that barrel, ready the oars. Izzy bites the inside of his cheek, but it doesn't do much to dampen the heat stirring in his gut. Fucking inevitable. He climbs into the periagua with the taste of blood in his mouth and his cock nudging the front of his pants.

They head west-by-northwest, occasionally adjusting course at Sébastien's murmured instructions. The moon is brighter than Izzy would like: approaching gibbous in a sky with too few clouds. The only sounds are the oars dipping, and periagua cutting a wake through the waves, and the click of Jevaun's tongue as he signals the next stroke. Izzy crouches at the bow and stares out at the water—the empty water. The horizon is unbroken and ink-black. He chews at the inside of his cheek a little more, worried that Sébastien's calculations had been wrong, or that the sloops' captains had opted to sail through the night. It's unusual, but not unheard of—not on a night this calm and clear.

Water laps at the periagua's hull. The crew rows. And rows. And rows. Sébastien whispers something Izzy can't hear, and the crew edges the periagua a bit more northwest. The current could be better, but with five sets of oars, they're making decent headway. Rowing. Rowing. Rowing. There's a soft splash—Jack bailing the leak at the stern. The oakum patch must have helped somewhat; he only heaves one more bucketful overboard before moving fore, picking a careful path over the benches. He stands just behind Izzy, his legs nearly touching Izzy's back.

More rowing: northwest, northwest, west-by-northwest, northwest. Izzy swallows around the uncertain feeling rising in his throat. It's been a long time since he's been nervous before a raid, but trying to take a ship with an unknown crew is the kind of gamble he's always left to Edward. He can't judge this lot by the Annabelle's reputation; her captain—a corsair called Selim who'd left the Mediterranean to avoid an Ottoman bounty—hadn't sailed these waters long enough to make a name for himself before the Dutch brought him down. They'd fought well when they'd stolen the periagua, but they'd only been up against three men, and one had thrown himself overboard almost as soon as knives had been drawn.

"I think I see something," Jack says suddenly.

Izzy looks out at the water again, but all he finds is a tiny white smear against the horizon that could be wishful thinking or the reflection of the moon. He reaches for his spyglass, but Jack hands him his. As Izzy puts it to his eye, Jack squats down behind him—too fucking close—and points over Izzy's shoulder.

He says, "Bit more west," all hot breath against the back of Izzy's neck. His stupid mustache brushes Izzy's hair, and Izzy shivers. Fuck. If they survive this, he's going to skin Jack alive. "Bit more."

Izzy shifts slightly and spots something bigger than a white smear. He adjusts the lenses on the spyglass until it solidifies into the shape of a ship. She's longer than the average sloop—maybe fifty feet instead of forty-five—and she has ten guns. Fuck you, Jack. They might be able to take on two more, depending on how much weight she can carry and the configuration of her deck, but Izzy is more interested in her sails. They're reefed now, which makes it hard to tell from a distance, but she appears to be rigged crossjack, not gaff. If so, she should be nimble and quick: two things that are often more important than firepower.

"She looks good," Izzy informs. "Well-fitted. Big."

"You do like them big."

Izzy elbows Jack in the ribs, hard. Jack grunts and mutters something that could be fucker as Izzy adds, "Ten guns," his voice smug.

"Ten?" Jack repeats, scoffing. "On a sloop? Now you're just teasing me." Izzy offers him the spyglass, which he takes with an infuriating twist to his mouth. He puts it to his eye, then pauses, then lowers it and whistles through his teeth. "God damn. Ten guns. That might be worth risking my hide—that, and your ass." Before Izzy can elbow him again—or stab him like he fucking deserves—he shuffles back. Something serious crosses his face as he asks, "How're we doing this?"

Izzy takes the spyglass back and looks at the sloop again. From what he can see, there are two men on watch: one on the maintop and one at the bow. Both have their backs to them, at least for now. They're approaching larboard, nearer to full broadside than Izzy would like. Coming on that openly makes them easy to spot, although Marco did a good job sooting the sail. Staying broadside also puts them in range of the sloop's guns. They're close enough now that the crew probably wouldn't have time to load a cannon with powder and shot and get a linstock lit, but there's no reason to risk it.

The periagua is rocking as she gains speed. Izzy—who's maimed foot still makes him clumsy sometimes—wobbles as he stands. He grabs Jack's shoulder for balance because it's that or pitching into the gunwale and maybe falling overboard. Jack takes it as an invitation to curl his hand around Izzy's wrist. He tucks his thumb underneath Izzy's glove and presses it to the hollow of Izzy's palm. Before Izzy can shake him off, he wraps his other hand around Izzy's calf and chuckles, teasing and low.

"Steady, Captain."

Heat stirs in Izzy's gut, something that feels heavy and liquid and dark. Fuck. He sucks in air through his nose and tries to breathe it down. It would be so easy to just let Jack have him. So fucking easy. Jack wants him—wants him so freely and shamelessly that he keeps finding himself struck by it. Edward hasn't shown this much naked interest in years: not since they were young men sharing a hammock on Hornigold's ship, not since Edward became Blackbeard and started closing himself off. But Izzy doesn't know if he wants it. And he doesn't have time to figure it out right now.

Izzy pulls away—slower than he probably should—and edges aft until he reaches the mast. In a whisper, he orders, "Make for the stern, then swing hard to larboard. We'll come in beneath the guns."

"Aye," Jevaun confirms.

"And spare anyone who yields. We need the hands."

The periagua rocks again as the crew alters course: west, west-by-northwest, west. Izzy braces his hip against the mast and double-checks his weapons. He has his sword, his belt knife, both boot knives, and the knife in his left sleeve. He also has his pistol. It's damp enough tonight that the powder is likely compromised, but if worse comes to worse, a dead pistol makes a fairly good club. The periagua banks as the crew stays their starboard oars and strokes larboard; she glides alongside the sloop, close enough that their hulls are almost kissing. Tómas and Sébastien drop the anchor, feeding the chain over the side in handfuls so it doesn't rattle against the gunwale. Jack crouch-walks aft and passes out weapons. He reserves a rapier for himself, even though he already has two knives on his belt, probably because his whip is useless in close combat.

Their four hooks catch on the sloops railing—click-click-click-click. In the silence, it feels louder than a blacksmith's hammer hitting an anvil. A beat passes, then another. When no cry is raised, Izzy gestures for the crew to board. He goes up the first rope, Jevaun right behind him. He takes four steps on deck and hears a surprised shout: a third watchman, hidden in the shadows cast by the taffrail. He manages to yell, "Pirates! We're attacked!" before Marco gets a sword through him, and it's enough to alert the hand on the maintop. He gives his own shout—Awake! Awake!—then grabs the bell and starts sounding a general alarm.

Abigay dashes for the mast—presumably to shut him up—but the damage is already done. Men begin pouring out of the forecastle before she's halfway up the rigging, most dressed in little more than their sleep clothes and boots. Izzy counts three, five, eight, eleven, fourteen, sixteen guys, then loses track as a gnarled root of an older dog steps up and swings an axe at his head. Izzy blocks him and leans in, pushing him back toward the railing. Old Dog tries again: a down-cut aimed for Izzy's neck. Izzy blocks harder this time, and the axe goes flying. Old Dog makes a startled noise and reaches for the knife at his hip, but Izzy yanks him in by the front of his shirt before he has the chance. A hand his age is likely a surgeon or a cook: two things Izzy's crew desperately needs. Izzy knocks him on the head with the pommel of his sword. Once he goes limp, he tosses him back against some barrels and out of the fray.

There's a splash—someone going overboard. Jack whoops somewhere fore of him; he must've lost one of his knives, because it's followed by a whip-crack. The bell stops, and Izzy glances at the mast just as the watch falls from the maintop, a rapier through his chest. He turns and finds himself nose-to-nose with a frog-faced guy holding a pistol. He doesn't have enough space to bring up his sword, so he pulls his knife with his left hand and plunges it between Froggy's ribs. Froggy makes a wheezing, gurgling noise and drops like a stone, and Izzy turns again. Sébastien charges past him, daggers in both hands as he gains on a guy already bleeding from his shoulder and cheek. Jack lets out another whoop; the has a knife in one hand and his whip in the other, the length of it dragging behind him on the deck. Just aft of him, Abigay is fighting a guy who's struggling to keep her rapier out of his gut, despite being a foot taller than her and twice as wide across the shoulders.

The captain slams through the door to his cabin, barking, "Kill them! Kill them! Clear the decks!" The fucking fool had wasted time getting dressed: loose pants tucked into his boots and a frock coat buttoned wrong over a shirt too fancy for sleep. Izzy stops a hulking, red-haired guy from running Tómas through by opening him down the side, then starts fighting his way aft. He hears a whip-crack, a yelp, and the dull thud of a body hitting the deck. He moves past Jevaun, who has a squat, balding man at knife-point, and Marco, who is yanking his sword out of a guy's thigh. Another body hits the deck, and someone else goes overboard. Frock Coat spots Izzy approaching; he snarls and lifts his sword.

He lunges in and slices up toward Izzy's throat. Izzy blocks him, pivots back, and undercuts toward the gut. Frock Coat dodges it—just barely—then drives in again. He's skilled enough, or would be, if he wasn't letting his anger make him wild. His next strikes are frenzied, uncontrolled, more shoulder than arm, and Izzy blocks. Blocks. Blocks. He finds an opening and lunges in, landing a slash that opens Frock Coat across the collarbone. He hisses and staggers back, and Izzy presses in. He takes a step, but his maimed foot lands at a bad angle—too much weight where his toe should be but isn't—and he stumbles. He gets his sword up and through Frock Coat's chest, but he reels into it, feet shuffling. His shoulder bashes into a stack of boxes and pain shoots down his arm.

Someone comes up behind him as he's regaining his feet. A knife jabs into his thigh, deep, and then another shoves up underneath his chin. A grating, furious voice seethes, "Yield, dog," all spittle and sour breath. Izzy freezes; his knife is gone, and his sword is still in Frock Coat's chest, and he's not sure he can get to his boot or his sleeve without also getting his throat slit. The pause makes Spittle dig the knife in a little more, but then: Crack. Spittle screams and jerks back. Crack. He screams again and crashes to the deck.

Izzy's whole fucking leg feels like it's on fire; turning around hurts so much that it nearly buckles his knees. The knife is still in his thigh, but if he pulls it out, he'll end up bleeding like a stuck pig. He grits his teeth and makes himself breathe. Spittle is flat on his back, Jack's whip coiled around his shin. Blood is frothing at the corners of his mouth; he probably broke a rib badly enough to puncture a lung. Slowly, Izzy lifts his throbbing leg and steps right on his throat.

"Yield?" he offers.

Something clatters to the deck. Spittle bares his bloody teeth and wheezes, "Fuck you, pirate."

Izzy reaches for the knife in his sleeve. The deck lurches, spinning; his fingers feel clumsy and thick. He looks down to find that his foot has slipped off Spittle's throat and a bloodstain is spreading on Spittle's shirt. He loses a moment wondering if he'd already stabbed him, but then Jack says, "Izzy, shit," and Izzy realizes that it's his blood. He touches his thigh; the knife is gone, and his hand comes away wet. His pant-leg is slick, glinting in the moonlight.

The deck lurches again. Not the deck—him. His knees start to sag, but then Jack is there, grabbing him by the arm. Jack says, "Shit," again and pulls Izzy up against his side, then barks, "Someone kill this fucker," but Abigay is already crouching at Spittle's head and gripping him by the hair.

Jack lowers Izzy to the deck and presses his hands to Izzy's thigh, and it hurts—fucking fuck it hurts—jolting and white-hot, like the knife is back in and twisting, twisting. He tries to tell Jack to stop it, but all that comes out of his mouth is a slurred, whining noise. Jack just presses harder, and then everything goes black.



+



"Mister Hands," Jonathan says, high-pitched and nervous. "Captain, sir." He frowns, then dances from foot to foot like he needs the pisspot, then tries again. "Mister Captain Hands, sir."

Lunch is dried fish and hardtack—again. Izzy reminds, "Captain is fine," for what feels like the twentieth time, then pushes his plate away and looks Jonathan over.

He has a dark mop of curly hair and freckles across his nose and cheeks. When he isn't slouching, he comes up to Izzy's chest. His shirt and coat fit him well enough, but his boots belong on a grown man, and his too-baggy breeches are being held up by a bit of rope. Jack had found him hiding in one of Frock Coat's stowage chests after carrying Izzy—who'd been fucking unconscious—into the captain's cabin. The tower of clothes piled beside the chest had given him away. Apparently, he's been on the Adventure for about five months, working as Frock Coat's boy. He's skittish around Izzy—maybe because of the fight, maybe because Izzy's a pirate, maybe because Frock Coat had treated him roughly and he expects Izzy to do the same.

Izzy grabs Frock Coat's pipe and gestures for Jonthan to bring him a spill, and Jonathan jumps to obey. He finds a partially-burnt one among the clutter at the other end of the table: a sextant, the logbook, several rolled maps, a pair of knit gloves, a mostly-gone bottle of rum. He moves like he means to light it himself, but Izzy snatches it out of his hand before he can. He almost died taking this ship—would've died if Abigay hadn't thought to put a hot knife to his wound. The last thing he needs is some idiot child setting it on fire.

He opens the window on his lantern, holds the spill to the flame until it catches, and uses it to spark the tobacco in the bowl. After a few puffs, the pipe slowly warms in his hand. He doesn't smoke often—he doesn't like the taste or the smell—but he's close to losing his mind after spending four days on his back. He'd wasted the first two sleeping, and then he'd wasted two more lolling around the cabin because walking had hurt his leg too much, even when he'd leaned on the ornately-carved cane he'd found in Frock Coat's things. He'd gone on deck for about three hours this morning, only to endure a bellyful of what Jack evidently doesn't consider henpecking when he's the one doing it. He's been shut up in his cabin since, and he's so restless he's ready to crawl out of his skin.

Since Jonathan is still standing there, he asks, "How old are you, boy?"

Jonathan barely pauses before saying, "Fifteen, Captain."

It's such a naked, obvious lie that heat rushes to Jonathan's face as soon as it's out of his mouth. Izzy snorts around a cloud of smoke; he can't imagine that Jonathan's much more than twelve. He'd runaway to sea himself when he was about eleven, but he'd been on a merchant brig, not a pirate ship. Even Hornigold had refused to sign on hands younger than fourteen, although that was mainly because he hadn't thought children would do a full day's work.

"What about your family?" Izzy presses. "Do they know you're at sea?"

"I don't have any, Captain."

That might be true. Port towns have orphans around every corner and down every street: playing in the muck, filching from pushcarts and market stalls, lifting purses, begging for coins outside taverns. But the edge to Jonathan's voice suggests he does have a family—it's just not the kind worth talking about. Izzy understands that well enough; he'd stowed away on that brig because he was tired of being slapped around by the matrons at the workhouse. But he's not running a fucking foundling home. The next time they make port at the Republic, he'll visit Jackie again. She might know someone who'll take in a child without beating him, or making him scrub floors nineteen hours a day, or using him as a shill for pickpocketing.

Jonathan is still standing there, so Izzy points to his plate and says, "Take that away," through a mouthful of smoke.

"Yes, Captain."

As he's reaching for it, Izzy asks, "Do you know how to tie knots?"

Jonathan nods. "A few, Captain."

"When you're done with that, go find Sébastien," Izzy orders. He might as well nap if he can't be on deck without Jack breathing down his neck, but he's not doing it with Jonathan lurking at the foot of his bed like some kind of phantom. And it's not like Sébastien has anything better to do while they're at anchor. "Have him teach you a few more."

"Yes, Captain." Jonathan gets halfway to the door, then stops and turns back to Izzy. He does the pisspot-dance again as he says, "Oh. I forgot to tell you. Mister Rackham asked to see you once you'd finished eating."

"Fine," Izzy grunts. He does want to know what's been happening on his ship. But if Jack starts nagging him about resting again, he's going to peel that fucking mustache off his face whole and pin it to the cabin door as a warning. "Send him in."

As Jonathan scurries away, Izzy tosses the cooling pipe on the table and levers himself out of the chair. He takes a few tentative steps, and his leg does him the favor of holding his weight without a crippling flare of pain. Five days in, his wound is aching more that it's throbbing, which—if not ideal—is at least bearable. He would've given orders for the Republic this morning if he wasn't stuck wearing his sleep clothes. His pants are just tight enough to rub his bandage against his healing skin, and it feels like he's being scraped raw with a fucking wood rasp, no matter how wet the bandage is with aloe. And while the cabin is full of Frock Coat's clothing, he'd been considerably bigger than Izzy, both in height and girth. He's wearing one of the bastard's shirts now—thrown on so Jonathan would stop staring at his tattoos and nipple rings in horrified fascination—but it nearly hangs to his knees. He'd had to roll the sleeves three times to get them past his wrists.

He's starting on the row of laces down the front when the door opens and Jack walks in. His vest and kerchief and shark-tooth necklace are missing. His hair is damp at the roots, which explains the splashing Izzy heard outside his window earlier. Someone shouts in Spanish out on deck—Tómas, probably; his voice is lower than Marco's. Jack drops his whip and knife on the messy end of the table, then moves around it to lean his ass on the arm of the chair.

"Your leg still hurting?" he asks.

Izzy shrugs and says, "Some," even though it's worse now that he's standing. "Where are we?" They'd dropped anchor about two hours ago, but they'd still been pushing north and east when Izzy let himself be harried back to his cabin. He'd told Jack and Sébastien to find them someplace to lie low, but he'd left the location up to them. "Andros?"

"Just north of it," Jack explains. "Between two of those little sandy spits we saw coming around."

It's a good spot—out of the shipping lanes but still close to the Republic. Izzy opens his mouth to say as much, but his leg twinges and he has to bite down on a noise. He sits on the edge of the bed as he tries again: this time, he asks, "How are the new hands?"

"Fuck knows," Jack says. Only two of the Adventure's survivors had stayed on. Afonso—a swab who mostly speaks Portuguese, although he understands Marco and Tómas well enough for Izzy and Jack to get orders to him—and William, the old dog Izzy had spared when he first boarded. He's a cook, just as Izzy had suspected, although there isn't enough fresh food on board for that to matter much yet. "I got all of 'em on repairs, but there's shit else to do until we're moving."

Tómas shouts again—something about nails or pegs, if Izzy still remembers what clavo means. Marco shouts back in reply: Si, tenemos algunas. They must be fixing the hatch. It got splintered in the fighting somehow, maybe when the watch had fallen from the maintop.

Izzy says, "We'll head out tomorrow."

"Another day isn't gonna hurt."

"Tomorrow," Izzy insists. The last thing he needs is the crew thinking he's weak, or Jack commanding the deck so long that they forget that he's their captain. "We need supplies."

Jack shrugs that off, saying, "Another day isn't gonna hurt," again. "You almost fucking bled to death."

"I'm fine."

Jack snorts. "Alright, you stubborn bastard. You're fine. Your bandage need changing?"

It probably does, but Izzy says, "No," because he knows if Jack starts touching him, he'll end up doing something stupid—something fucking inevitable. But Jack just snorts again and walks over to the bed. He sits down beside Izzy: farther away that Izzy expects, but close enough that he can feel the sun-warm heat of him. He nudges Izzy back—practically laying him down, fuck—then draws Izzy's legs into his lap and wraps a hand around his ankle.

He asks, "What happened to your toe?"

Izzy doesn't want to talk about that. He says, "I stepped on something. It got infected and had to come off."

Jack makes a noise—something curious, almost incredulous. He knows Izzy knows better than to walk on deck with bare feet, but he doesn't push. He touches the skin just above the inflamed, red line of the scar and asks, "It always this angry?"

"It rubs against my boot."

"You gotta pack something down in there."

Izzy scoffs. He asks, "What the fuck do you know about losing a toe?" and tries to tug his foot away, not that Jack lets him.

He slides his hand up to Izzy's shin and replies, "I had a guy on the Kingston missing three. He used cottonwool, but some rag'll probably work." After a pause, his hand drifts up over Izzy's knee. "You gonna let me look at that?"

"I told you, it's fine."

"C'mon. I do know a little about burns."

That's true: Jack had taken the worst of it when the Theophania went up in flames. Izzy's sleeve had caught fire as he'd shoved Edward out of the forecastle, but they'd gone into the water almost immediately—soon enough that he'd escaped with just a ribbon of scarring that cuts across the back of his hand and curls around his wrist. Jack had been counting rations down in the orlop when the fire reached the munitions hold and the powder stocks blew. His whole left arm had burned so badly it blistered, as well as his shoulder, some of his collarbone, and parts of his hip and thigh. It's a miracle he survived. God smiling on fools.

Jack skims his fingers up higher, stopping just below the bandage. "Yeah? You gonna let me?"

Izzy—he knows what Jack's really asking. He knows what Jack wants. He thinks he might want it too, even if it feels strange to want someone who isn't Edward after only wanting Edward for so long. He hasn't been with anyone but Edward in over a decade: not since Jack and Edward were on the Marianne together, and he started bunking with Bellamy again just so he wouldn't go out of his mind thinking about that. But there's an edge of anticipation building in his gut, and a slow heat rising under his skin, and Jack's hand is on his thigh now, cupping the back of it so he isn't touching Izzy's wound, and Izzy—

He says, "Yeah."

Jack makes a dark, pleased noise. He gets his other hand on Izzy's waist and hauls Izzy farther up the bed. He crawls up after him, sitting up on his knees long enough to unbuckle his belt and yank his shirt over his head, and he then shifts over him, pinning him down. He mouths at Izzy's neck, all bristly mustache and dragging tongue: sloppy-wet kisses that start at the dip below Izzy's ear and end at the hollow of his throat. He bites down there, hard, and tugs on the two shirt-laces Izzy had bothered to tie. He slides a hand up to one of Izzy's tits as it falls open, and he just holds it there—not enough pressure to really tease the ring, but enough that Izzy feels delicious threads of something when he breathes.

Another bite: Izzy arches up, digging his nails into Jack's shoulders. He gasps, "Jack," with an awful, embarrassing hitch in his voice.

But Jack just rumbles, "Yeah, sweetheart," his mouth at Izzy's collarbone. "Say it like that."

It's ridiculous—ridiculous, and so fucking Jack, and something that Edward would never, ever ask for. That's only half the reason Izzy does it again, nudging Jack's chin up so he can moan it right into Jack's ear. Jack makes another noise: low, filthy, hungry. He licks a rough, wet stripe down the line of Izzy's jaw, and then he grabs Izzy's hair and pushes his tongue into Izzy's mouth.

He kisses Izzy for a long time, and he does it slow and deep, his other hand gripping Izzy's jaw so he can angle his head exactly how he wants. He bites at Izzy's lips and sucks on Izzy's tongue, and then his own tongue is back in Izzy's mouth, sliding and slick, and then he's letting up long enough for a breath before starting all over again. Izzy runs his hands down Jack's back, his fingers tripping over lash-marks and knife-scars and a twisting mottle of burns right at Jack's waist. When he reaches Jack's ass, he hauls him down and closer. That puts his cock right against the curve of Jack's hip, and he rubs himself there, his uninjured leg hooked around Jack's thigh.

Jack grinds down to meet him—hard enough that the bed creaks—again and again and again. He brings a hand down to flick Izzy's nipple ring with his thumb, huffing out a dirty laugh when Izzy shivers, and then he sits up and yanks Izzy's sleep pants down to his knees. He asks, "You all wet for me?" and laughs again when he teases his hand over Izzy's cock and finds that he is. "Yeah, you are. Fuck." He shifts down the bed a bit more and pulls Izzy's sleep pants all the way off, then leans back up and sucks Izzy's cock into his mouth.

It's so sudden—the soft-wet heat of it, the slow pressure, the slippery drag of Jack's tongue. A moan catches in Izzy's throat; he fists one hand in Jack's still-damp hair and claws at the blankets with the other. Somehow, his injured leg ends up over Jack's shoulder. It strains his wound a little, but Jack is taking him deeper and deeper, and it feels so good that Izzy can't make himself move away. Jack pulls up and down a few more times, all spit-slick lips and swirling tongue, then eases off and pats the back of Izzy's uninjured thigh.

He says, "Open up for me, sweetheart. I wanna see if your hole is as perfect as I remember."

That's also ridiculous and so fucking Jack—enough that Izzy scoffs under his breath. But he finds himself doing it, heat coiling in his gut as he hooks a hand behind his knee and hefts his leg back. Jack makes a dirty, appreciative noise that Izzy feels in his cock. He rubs his thumb over Izzy's hole—dry, no pressure, just enough to feel it give—and then he reaches out his other hand.

"Gimme the oil."

That's—fuck. Fucking oil. If Izzy remembers right, Jack's big enough that he'll be walking sideways for a week if they do it with spit, but he doesn't know if there's oil in the cabin, or where it might be. But before he can say that, Jack points at the bedside shelf—at a jar Izzy hadn't noticed earlier.

Izzy grabs it and asks, "Did you put that there?" as he hands it over.

"I had the kid do it," Jack admits, prying at the cork. "Told him it was for your leg." Izzy smacks his shoulder for that, but he just chuckles, the shameless bastard. "C'mon. I wasn't gonna get you to finally give it up and not have any slick."

"You're an asshole," Izzy snaps—or tries to. Jack pushes two wet fingers into him as he opens his mouth, curling them in a way that makes him arch off the bed, so half of it dies in his throat, and the rest of it slurs into a whine. Jack starts mouthing at his cock again, all teasing: his tongue along the vein, the barest—barest—hint of teeth just under the head, his tongue again over the slit, a kiss at the base that's more mustache-scratch than lips. By the time he works a third finger in, Izzy's legs are shaking. He must feel it against his shoulders, because his face is smug as shit when he sits up.

He unlaces his pants and shoves them down to his knees and strokes an oil-slick hand over his cock. It's not quite as big as Izzy remembers—he hasn't seen it in fifteen fucking years—but it's fucking big enough. Jack leans over him, bracing an elbow beside his head, breathing out against his temple as he starts pushing in and in and in and in. Izzy makes a noise—high and choked-off—and Jack asks, "Is it too much, sweetheart?" but he doesn't stop—thank fuck he doesn't stop. In and in and in and in. "Nah. You can take it. I've seen you take more than this."

Izzy hisses, "Jack," and sinks his nails into Jack's shoulder blades. He's so fucking full. He's going to come if Jack doesn't stop running his mouth. "Shut up."

Jack doesn't—of course he doesn't. He pulls back and thrusts in—slow, too slow—and says, "I think about that night a lot. You taking us both like that, and all the screaming you did."

The heat coiling in Izzy's gut builds and builds: pushing up into his chest, sparking under his skin. He rolls his hips up to meet Jack's next thrust and gasps, "Fuck," like his voice is being dragged out of him. "Jack, fuck."

"Yeah," Jack says, fucking Izzy harder, faster. "Yeah, just like that."

In and in and in and in. The bed creaks and groans like it might shear away from the wall at any moment. Izzy is full and shaking and his skin feels fever-hot; he rakes his nails down Jack's back, right over the crisscrossing lash-marks, and he muffles his panting, gulping moans by biting at Jack's throat. Jack shudders over him, and the hand he's holding at Izzy's hip squeezes like a vise. Another few pounding thrusts: he sits back on his knees and brings Izzy with him, hauling Izzy's ass into his lap. Izzy's injured leg twinges, but Jack snaps his hips—in and in and in and in—and the change in angle has Izzy's vision flaring white.

"You close?" Jack asks, like he doesn't know—like he can't feel Izzy starting to clench up around him. He just wants to hear Izzy say it. And Izzy does—yeah, yeah—even though it makes Jack look smug as shit again. He reaches for his cock, but Jack bats his hand away. He starts stroking Izzy himself as he says, "Play with those pretty tits for me."

Izzy does that too: touching both of them at once, twist-tugging just the way he likes. Pleasure jolts through him so sharply that his toes curl and his thighs tense, and then he's coming. Fuck. Fuck. Jack just pounds him through it—harder, harder, harder—until he's coming too, his mouth open and his hair hanging in his face and his fingers digging bruises into Izzy's hips.

A beat passes, and then another. He huffs out a breath and mutters, "God damn," and flops onto the bed, flat on his back at Izzy's side. After that, he's quiet for a few moments, and Izzy isn't sure what to expect. Edward rarely lingered after sex, even before Blackbeard. When they'd still shared a hammock on Hornigold's ship, he'd usually either go back above deck to get some air or fall right to sleep. A few times, he'd thrown his arm over Izzy's waist or let his hand drift up to Izzy's hair. The quiet drags on long enough that Izzy debates getting up and finding his sleep pants, but before he can, Jack sits up and wipes his sweaty forehead with his arm. With his other hand, he gropes at the bed until he finds Izzy's hip.

"C'mon." He urges Izzy over and shifts down to kneel between his legs. "Yeah."

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"I gotta clean up my mess," Jack says. He pushes at Izzy's thighs, trying to open him up. "Then I'm gonna fuck you again."

"Fuck off, Rackham," Izzy snaps, despite the way his cock twitches. He can't just stay in bed and fuck all day, even if he could get hard again so soon. "I have work to do."

Jack snorts. "No, you don't."

"You have work to do."

"We're at anchor," Jack points out. "Jevaun can handle 'em hammering nails and coiling rope. Besides," he adds, grabbing a handful of Izzy's ass, "I gotta fuck you now, before Blackie catches up with you."

"He—" Izzy swallows hard. Edward might've looked for him in the Republic for a day or two—and Izzy had been surprised to hear he'd done that much—but he won't keep looking. Not with Bonnet around. "He won't."

Jack says, "Maybe. Maybe not," and pushes at Izzy's thigh again. "You never know what that crazy fucker's gonna do."

Izzy starts to reply, but Jack shifts down farther, all hot breath and sloppy tongue, and then Izzy almost doesn't care what Edward does.



+



The galley is quiet this early—just an hour after dawn. The light streaming through the portholes is gray and thin. A fire has been lit, but the hearth is empty except for a spider skillet warming at the edge of the flames and a coffee kettle steaming on a trivet. William is at the cutting board, slicing rashers off a slab of bacon. Around him, the workbench is cluttered: another spider skillet, a copper bowl, several knives, a straw-lined crate of what are probably eggs.

"Captain," he greets, without looking up. He has a voice like an old stowage chest creaking open for the first time in years. "There's coffee, but you won't be pleased with it, I don't think."

They'd bought supplies before leaving the Republic yesterday; Izzy has been looking forward to a cup of coffee after two long weeks without. He asks, "Did they stretch it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Chicory or sand?"

William slices another rasher. "Chicory, it looks to me, Captain."

Izzy grumbles, "Fuck," but grabs a tin mug and a towel anyway. Sand makes it taste like dirt, but chicory only sours it a little. "How is everything else?"

"Eggs could be worse," William replies, jabbing his knife at the crate. "The bacon's mostly fat, and the flour's coarser than I'd like. The potatoes are fair, but the carrots are too small." He slices two or three more rashers before continuing, "Next time, I'll go myself."

It's an idle threat: William is at least ten years older than Izzy, and—by his own recollection—he'd gone to sea at eight or nine. His knees and back are so bad he stumps more than he walks, and he's the type of old cuss who won't use a cane. When they'd first made port, Izzy had—privately—offered to cut him loose, but he'd just shrugged it off. He'd said that he'd been a pirate in his youth, and that he'd only gone back to merchant sailing because he'd fallen for a woman who'd refused to marry a cutthroat. But she's been dead twenty years, and his children are scattered across the Empire: two back in London, one in Barbados, one in the Navy, two more somewhere in the American colonies. He doesn't seem too fussed about how he lives or dies, as long as he gets to do it on a ship.

Izzy wraps the towel around his hand and lifts the kettle off the trivet. The handle is hot enough that the towel starts to smell burnt. He fills his mug and sets the kettle down before telling William, "I'll talk to them."

Rations are Jevaun's job, since Izzy doesn't have a quartermaster—and he probably never will, since they need to be literate and honest. But Frock Coat had been such a skinflint that the holds had been bare by the time they made port. They'd needed far more supplies than one hand could fetch and carry in the single day Izzy had been willing to stay in the Republic, so he'd had Jack divide the work between the whole crew. Coffee and tobacco are the two items victualers most often cheat on; whoever bought the coffee must not have known to watch it being ground and put in the canisters.

William scoops the sliced bacon into the bowl and shuffles over to the hearth. He informs, "Breakfast should be up in an hour, Captain," and starts laying the bacon in the skillet.

Izzy waves him off. He doesn't like eggs, and if they head south today—he hasn't decided yet—they might hit choppy waters. He doesn't need something as greasy as bacon in his stomach if they do. He grabs a small chunk of cheese and reaches for the sugar. He drops one in his coffee, which is all he usually takes, then remembers the chicory and adds another.

He's poking around for a spoon—stirring with a knife or fork is bad luck—when William says, "The mite was down here looking for you. Said your door was locked."

Izzy rarely bothers locking it. Unlike Bonnet's rabble, his crew knows how to knock—except for fucking Jonathan. Jack had still been in bed when Izzy had gone on deck, sprawled out face down and snoring into the pillow. Jonathan doesn't need to see Jack's naked ass, and Izzy doesn't need rumor becoming fact because children don't know how to keep their mouths shut. He's sure the crew knows—ships hold few secrets, and Jack hasn't made it back to his own bunk in days—but he can't afford to be too indiscreet. The crew hardly knows him, and right now they only respect him because he'd worked for Blackbeard. He needs to start commanding it on his own; leverage that thin won't last forever.

"I'll find him."

Izzy walks out of the galley, then heads down the passageway and up the ladder. He eats the cheese as he goes. It's just stale enough that it crumbles in his mouth, and he washes it down with a sour-sweet swallow of coffee. When he gets on deck, he finds the crew awake and starting on their tasks: swabbing the boards, checking the rigging, tightening any knots that loosened overnight. Jack is at the mast, pointing at the sails as Jonathan watches. His kerchief is tied a bit higher than usual, probably because Izzy has made a mess of his neck and throat.

As Izzy approaches, Jack asks Jonathan, "What about that one?"

"Gaff topsail."

Jack points again. "And that one?"

"Save-all sail."

"Good. What about that one?"

Jonathan pauses before venturing, "Uh… ringtail sail?"

"Watersail," Jack corrects. "It's closest to the water, remember?" He spots Izzy then and winks at him over Jonathan's head. "Morning, Captain."

Jonathan yelps, "Captain?" and turns around so fast he stumbles into Jack. "Your door was locked this morning. I would've brought you breakfast, sir."

Izzy bristles at that—he finally got Jack to stop henpecking him; he doesn't need a fucking child doing it. But he bites back a sharp remark because it isn't the boy's fault. From what William has told him, Frock Coat had had him following him everywhere but the shitter.

He says, "I don't always eat breakfast. When I do, I'll get it myself." Jack makes a choking noise—like he's swallowing a laugh—but Izzy ignores him and continues, "I need to talk to Mister Rackham. Go see if Tómas needs help untangling that rope."

Once he's gone, Jack does laugh, the absolute twat. His shoulders are still shaking when he says, "Never thought I'd see you fucking parenting."

"Fuck off," Izzy snaps. He'd tried dumping the boy on Jackie. He'd tried. But she'd told him that her bar isn't a fucking orphanage as soon as he'd walked Jonathan through the door. She hadn't known anyone who would take him either, and Izzy hadn't wanted to just leave him in a pirate port alone. "You're the one teaching him the sails. How's the wind?"

"Lousy, if we're going north," Jack replies, looking up at the sky. A bite mark is peeking past the edge of his kerchief. "Less lousy if we're going south. You decide yet?"

Izzy sips his coffee before admitting, "Not yet."

"If you're avoiding Blackie—"

"I'm not avoiding him."

That's a lie—and a fucking obvious one—but Jack lets him have it. He muses, "Always good pickings down south," instead of pushing. "We could work the coast around Cartagena and Barranquilla. Or we could float off Tobago and take anything making for Paramaribo."

Heading south would keep Izzy clear of Edward, who prefers the calmer waters and well-sailed shipping lanes between Florida, the Bahamas, and Cuba. And the pickings are good off the coast of Spanish America. Traffic is high, and there are enough pirate ports nearby—Bonaire, Tobago, Nevis, Grenada—that they wouldn't need to keep sailing back to the Republic to sell their loot. They might even be able to steal a ship that's bigger and better-armed than the Adventure.

Jack leans his shoulder against the mast as he continues, "You don't have to decide yet. Crew still hasn't gone down to eat."

"Yeah," Izzy mutters. That gives him another hour or two, although he wishes he didn't need it. Edward might've had trouble making decisions sometimes, but never about which routes to choose or which ships to take. He'd always just known. "Did the crew get that sail patched?"

"Yeah. Afonso did it last night."

"What about the railing on the maintop? Did they get it repaired?"

"Not yet."

"Why the fuck not?" Izzy demands. It comes out louder than he intends—loud enough that Abigay and Jevaun turn their heads. "When I give an order," he presses, quieter, "I want it done."

Jack's mouth moves like there's a smile under that stupid mustache. "By the time they got the jib lines restrung, the light was gone. I put Abigay and Marco on it. They'll get started after they eat. Sun should be out by then."

"Fine. What about—"

"Izzy," Jack cuts in, low—low like he's got Izzy bent over the table in his cabin. Fuck. "You've been a first mate too long. You think you gotta be up someone's ass all the time. Half of being a captain is figuring out when the crew needs your foot on their necks and when they don't."

Izzy scoffs. "You're giving advice? You?"

"Fuck you," Jack says, brittle. "You know I know the job. I keep getting mutinied on because I drink too much."

Jack had always been a drinker—all pirates are fucking drinkers—but he hadn't started drinking until after the fire. He'd been in unbearable pain, and he hadn't had any other way to deal with because Hornigold hadn't allowed laudanum on his ships. The old bastard had been too worried his crew would loll around in a daze instead of working, and he'd been such a cunt about it that it had been impossible to smuggle some on. No chemist would sell it to anyone who sailed for him, too afraid they'd end up with a sword in their gut.

Before Izzy can try and steer this conversation away from the rocks, Sébastien saves him by shouting, "Ho! Regardez-moi!" while climbing down the mast. About three feet from the bottom, he jumps to the deck and hurries over to Izzy and Jack. "Captain Hands, Monsieur Rackham—there is a ship."

"A ship?" Izzy asks. Thank fuck. Between his injury and their supply stop at the Republic, they haven't had a chance to do any raiding. "Show us."

Sébastien leads them to the bow and points at something a few degrees larboard. It doesn't look like much until Izzy puts his spyglass to his eye: then it's a schooner carrying twelve guns and flying the Dutch flag. She's lying low in the water, wallowing like she's laboring under the weight of full holds. That promises plenty of loot, and it will make her slow—much slower than the Adventure.

Izzy passes Jack the spyglass and asks, "What do you think?"

"She looks good," Jack replies. "Fat. Probably luxury shit, if she's coming in. Aruba, you think?"

"Either that or Curaçao." It would be sugar or salt if she was going out. Either sell, even in a pirate port, but things like silk and porcelain and glassware bring better prices. Izzy warns, "She'll see us soon."

"She—" Jack cuts off and adjusts the lenses on the spyglass. "She already has. Fuckers are opening more sail." After a pause, he lowers the spyglass and makes a quiet, thoughtful noise. "Could let her pass us. Catch up and take her in the stern."

"Yeah," Izzy agrees. Once the schooner is a bit more south, they can cut southeast and push just past her, then arc around and put their cannons at her back. "Work it out with Sébastien."

"You got the deck?"

Izzy nods. He starts moving aft, barking, "Open sail. Topsail, save-all, and topgallant. Swing the booms on the mainsail and ringtail."

Jevaun asks, "Are we engaging, Captain?"

"We are," Izzy replies. They're still short a few hands—enough that he and Jack will have to help work the ropes. And he'll need Jonathan to run powder, as much as he'd rather not. "Ready the starboard guns."



+



Jonathan brings Izzy's lunch at noon. It's two hardtack biscuits, an orange that's slightly wrinkled, a mug of watered beer, and some kind of stew made from salt pork, potatoes, carrots, and onions. William isn't the most inventive cook, but he's reliable. Everything he puts out is hearty, and it's far better than the slop Izzy had eaten in the Navy.

After setting the tray on the table, Jonathan says, "Mister Rackham wants to see you, Captain."

Izzy doesn't particularly want to see him. He'd drunk too much last night: more than he has in some time. He'd staggered into Izzy's cabin about midnight, after a round of whippies that had left a weal on Marco's arm and shattered every empty bottle on the ship. Izzy had sent him back to his bunk, if only so he wouldn't have to smell his rum-breath all night. For whatever reason—maybe because his head hurt, maybe because he didn't get his cock wet—he'd woken up angry enough to chew a hole in the hull, and he's been a quarrelsome twat all morning. But Izzy can't avoid him forever; there are things they need to discuss.

"Send him in."

"Now, Captain? Or after you eat."

Eating first would buy Izzy another half an hour of peace, but he might as well get it over with. He drops the hardtack in the stew so it will soften and says, "Now is fine."

Jack must have been waiting outside the door; he comes in just as soon as Jonathan walks out. He looks rough: face unshaven, hair unbrushed, shadows under his eyes. He frowns at something just over Izzy shoulder for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then: "We've sighted Cuba. You still wanna make port in Guardalavaca?"

"Yeah," Izzy replies. Prices aren't the best in Guardalavaca—from what he's heard, at least—but they've raided two more ships since taking the Dutch schooner, and they haven't had a chance to unload their loot. The crew is anxious to get their shares, and the extra weight is making the Adventure clumsy and slow. "Two days leave, and then we'll head south."

"Barranquilla or Paramaribo?"

After a pause, Izzy decides, "Paramaribo." Barranquilla would probably be more lucrative, but they'd always be at risk—either sitting in open water or running a Dutch gauntlet to reach Bonaire. Ships making for Paramaribo pass Tobago; they could engage from there without too much trouble from the Spanish. "We'll circle Tobago and find somewhere to put in."

Jack—who's been lurking at the other end of the table—walks around and leans his hip right next to Izzy's mug. "Tómas was telling me about a few little spits off Tobago. Said there's a couple on the north side, and a couple more east. Might be worth looking at."

"Yeah," Izzy agrees. Finding an isolated island would let them careen and make repairs without always looking over their shoulders. "Do you speak any Spanish? You'll need it if we start taking on crew down there."

Jack shrugs. "You can teach me, yeah? Bellamy said you two privateered for some Spanish cunt."

That had been thirty fucking years ago, at least: Izzy's forgotten most of what he'd learned, and he'd never learned all that much to begin with. He says, "Fuck off," and—seeing that the hardtack has finally softened—uses his spoon to break it up and stir it into the stew. When Jack just stands there and watches him do it, he asks, "Are you going to let me eat?"

A brazen smile twitches under Jack's mustache. He says, "Nah," and steps behind Izzy's chair. He leans over Izzy's shoulders, then slips a hand between his vest and shirt to paw at one of his tits. "I wanna play with your pretty cock."

Izzy growls, "Rackham," and tries to shrug him off. He can't keep letting Jack fuck him in the middle of the day. "Get the fuck off me."

"C'mon, sweetheart." Jack thumbs at Izzy's nipple ring, teasing in sweet little circles that tug it just right. A noise hooks out of Izzy's throat—something high and thin—and Jack smiles again, his lips curving against Izzy's ear. He asks, "You gonna tell me you aren't hard for me?"

Izzy isn't quite there yet, although he will be soon if Jack doesn't stop. He reaches back and grabs a handful of Jack's hair, but that just brings Jack's mouth closer to his neck. Jack drags a few kisses between Izzy's shirt-collar and ear, all mustache and sloppy tongue, and Izzy decides maybe he can let Jack fuck him in the middle of the day. He turns his head and catches Jack's mouth, biting at Jack's lower lip until he opens up for Izzy's tongue. Jack slides his other hand down between Izzy's legs and rubs Izzy's cock through his pants.

It's light: too light. Izzy jerks his hips up, chasing more pressure, but Jack—the infuriating bastard—twists his wrist until he's barely grazing Izzy's cock with his knuckles. He asks, "That feel good?" and huffs when Izzy's hips jerk again. "You want more?"

"You're an asshole," Izzy bites out, because Jack just wants to hear him ask for it. But he's fully hard now, and he's clawing at the arm of the chair with the hand not still pulling Jack's hair, so he lets himself admit it. "Yeah, hurry up."

Jack straightens up and hauls Izzy out of the chair, one hand grabbing Izzy's waist and the other gripping his arm. As soon as Izzy is on his feet, he hustles Izzy back against the closest wall, hard enough that something twinges in Izzy's shoulder. For a brief moment, Izzy thinks Jack is going to try and fuck him standing up—Izzy's too old for that shit and Jack isn't far behind—but he just yanks Izzy's pants open and wraps his hand around his cock.

Izzy hisses, "Fuck," and pushes up into it. Jack slides his other hand up to the base of Izzy's throat and holds it there: more weight than pressure. He strokes Izzy's cock a few times—slow, loose, like he knows his hand is too dry—and then runs his thumb over the head, where Izzy's starting to get wet, then spits in his palm and strokes Izzy a little more. He spits again, this time right on Izzy's cock, and it's obscene, the way it globs on the head and then drips down over Jack's fingers. Izzy tips his head back and snaps his hips.

"Yeah," Jack says, rough. "Fuck my fist. Lemme see you."

Izzy does: pushing up and up and up. Heat is pulsing everywhere under his skin. Jack is stepped-back just enough that Izzy can't touch him or give him his thigh to grind against. He tugs Jack closer by the hip and hooks his fingers in his laces, but Jack catches his wrist and squeezes.

He says, "Don't think that's happening. I mighta had too much to drink last night," but Izzy huffs and bats his hand away and cups him through his pants. He works Jack's cock like that, steady pressure from the heel of his hand, and then it's filling, growing heavy and hard, even if it's taking a bit longer than usual. He opens Jack's pants and gets his hand around him, and Jack chuckles in his ear. "Huh. I guess something about you just gets me going."

That sparks at something deep in Izzy's gut. Despite these last couple weeks, it still surprises him a little—how open Jack is about wanting him, how he can't seem to get enough of him. He gropes and teases Izzy whenever they're alone, and he climbs into Izzy's bed every night to fuck him hard and then fall asleep with his arm over Izzy's waist and his snoring mouth at the back of Izzy's neck, and he sometimes wakes up hard in the middle of the night, and if he's too tired to push back inside Izzy, he just rubs himself off against Izzy's ass like Izzy is giving him a fucking gift. The constant attention is overwhelming after so many years of Edward's growing indifference—enough that Izzy doesn't know how he feels about it, except that his chest is tight and his hands are shaking and he wants to make Jack come.

He pulls Jack closer and shoves his tongue in Jack's mouth, and Jack slides the hand at his throat down his chest and side and around to his ass. They stroke each other side by side for a few moments—awkward, knuckles bumping—but then Jack shifts and gets his hand around both of them, and then: Fuck. It's so good—the way they're dragging against each other, the way Jack's fingers are digging bruises into his ass, the way Jack is panting into his mouth. Izzy wet enough now for both of them, but Jack spits again—once, twice—and then everything is slippery and perfect, and Izzy squeezes his hand around Jack's, wanting more, more.

"You gonna come?" Jack asks, low. "Yeah. C'mon, sweetheart."

And Izzy does: thighs shaking, making a choked-off noise as he spurts all over Jack's hand and cock. Jack catches the mess on his fingers and spreads it down his length, then starts working himself hard and fast. After a few strokes, he grunts in a way that sounds frustrated, like he's teetering on the edge but can't tip over. He probably still has too much rum in his blood. Izzy can't get to Jack's neck because of his kerchief, so he bites kisses down the line of Jack's jaw. He pushes Jack's pants down past his ass, then slips his hand under Jack's cock, letting his balls sit in his palm as he teases his fingers along the thin skin just behind them. Jack shudders and fucks into his fist—again and again and again—and then he's coming, his mouth open and a flush on his cheeks.

He's still panting into Izzy's cheek when someone knocks on the door. After a pause, Jevaun calls, "Captain Hands? Mister Rackham? We need you on deck."

Izzy mutters, "Fuck," and shuffles over to the washstand, holding his pants up with his clean hand. There is—predictably—only one towel, so he tosses it to Jack after cleaning off his own sticky hand and cock. "What the fuck to they want?"

Jack shrugs. He wipes himself off as he ventures, "Could be a ship," then drops the towel on the floor like an absolute ass.

Izzy hopes it isn't a ship. They don’t have space in the holds for more loot, and the Adventure is already dragging in the water as it is. But it could be hard to explain that to a crew hungry for more spoils, not when the prizes have been coming so quick.

Jevaun knocks again: impatient, urgent. Izzy grunts, "Fuck," as he tries to fix his pants; his fingers are still fuck-clumsy enough that he keeps fumbling the laces. By the time he gets them sorted, Jack is heading for the door. Izzy hurries to follow him, straightening his shirt and vest and tie as he walks.

Sébastien is at the helm, but the rest of the crew is waiting outside. Izzy's first, panicked thought is mutiny—Bonnet's lot had caught him unawares by fabricating an emergency—and his blood starts rushing in his ears. He glances at Jack, who's staring out at the water, and he wonders if he'd been in on it: if I wanna play with your pretty cock had just been a distraction, if this had all been a ploy to get his ship.

As he's moving for his sword—he's not getting anchored again—Jevaun says, "We're being followed."

Izzy isn't expecting that. He asks, "By who? The English? The Dutch? Fucking privateers?"

Jevaun opens his mouth, but Jack cuts ahead of him, saying, "It's Blackie."

He's up the aftcastle ladder now, looking over the taffrail through his spyglass. But he's wrong. He must be. Edward—Edward wouldn't. Izzy insists, "No, it isn't," with a crack in his voice.

"Izzy," Jack says, lowering the spyglass. And that—fuck. He never uses Izzy's name in front of the crew. "It's Blackie, unless some other bastard is flying his flag and sailing Bonnet's crazy ship." He collapses his spyglass and heads down the ladder before adding, "They're moving fast."

"Blackbeard?" Afonso asks nervously.

Marco's eyes widen. "Blackbeard is coming here? To us?"

An anxious murmur runs through the crew. Jevaun pushes past Jack to take his place on the aftcastle ladder, pulling out his own spyglass. Abigay, Afonso, and Tómas reach for their weapons like Edward is going jump down from the maintop in a puff of smoke and attack them. After a moment's hesitation, Marco does the same. The only one who shows any sense William: he shrugs, grabs Jonathan by the shoulder, and heads for the hatch like he's going back to the galley.

The last thing Izzy needs is the rest of this lot falling into hysterics. He barks, "Stand down. He isn't here yet. And he—" He cuts off, unsure of how to explain that while much of what they've heard about Edward is true, just as much is nothing but rumor and legend. "He won't hurt you."

Another murmur: more disbelief than fear, but Jack catches Izzy's arm and draws him away from the crew before he can address it. He asks, "What're you gonna do?" in a voice so low it's almost a whisper.

"I don't know," Izzy admits. He'd been so convinced that Edward wouldn't bother looking for him that he'd never really thought about what he'd do if he did. "I… I didn't—"

Jack makes a pfff noise—something both exasperated and amused. "C'mon, sweetheart. You assholes have been together… what? Thirty fucking years? And you never cut anchor. The possessive bastard was always gonna come after you."

"I," Izzy starts. He—he doesn't know how to make these kinds of decisions. Edward had always been the one with the plans and big ideas; Izzy had just made them happen and kept Edward from getting himself killed. He looks at the helm and asks, "Sébastien, how long before we reach Cuba?"

Sébastien replies, "Guardalavaca, we make in one hour and one half." He must not like what he sees on Izzy's face, because he quickly tries again. "Cayo Coco is less time. Perhaps one hour."

"We can run," Jack offers. "Bonnet's ship is riding high, so she must not be carrying too much. But we can beat her, if we dump some ballast. Maybe some of the loot." He looks at the sails like he's gauging the wind before continuing, "We're close to Hispaniola. We can try Gonâve, or Santo Domingo. He hates Santo Domingo, yeah? Isn't that where he nearly lost the Queen Anne?"

"Yeah," Izzy replies. Spanish privateers had tried to bring her down, just off the coast of Isla Saona. It's the main reason he prefers to stay north, but that—it doesn't matter. If he's chased Izzy this far, a few bad memories of Fang and Ivan and Horace desperately working the pumps while the Queen Anne limped to Tortuga isn't going to stop him. "No. He—he'll just come after us."

"Yeah." Jack's mouth twists in a way Izzy can't read. "Probably."

Izzy turns back to the crew. With his heart beating in his throat, he orders, "Bring in the sails. Drop anchor."



+



It's late afternoon by the time the Revenge tacks into position alongside the Adventure. The sun is low in the sky and already hinting at orange. Izzy hears the measured lurches and cranks of the Revenge's capstan as her anchor goes into the water. That's followed by the rise and fall of Edward's voice. The words are lost to the wind, but he's probably ordering someone to lower a dinghy because one shortly splashes down. Once it does, Izzy has Afonso throw the ladder over the side.

Izzy waits at the mast, not the railing. He won't give Edward the satisfaction of acting like a dog attending its master. He's tempted to wait in his cabin—to make Edward ask to see him, to make Edward do the waiting—but his crew is already too restless and fearful, still half-convinced that the legendary fucking Blackbeard is going to murder them, no matter what Izzy has said to assure them over the last few hours. Fuck only knows what kind of fits they'd give themselves if he disappeared.

Long moments pass. Izzy leans his shoulder against the mast, and Jack heaves himself up to sit on the barrel beside him. Another few moments: the railing creaks as weight pulls on the ladder, and then Edward is coming aboard. He's Blackbeard head to toe: his hair is loose, and he has a hint of kohl around his eyes, and he's wearing his jacket in spite of the heat. He stares at Izzy, silent, and Izzy stares back. His chest aches, like a giant fist is grabbing at everything under his ribs.

He doesn't get to stare long. The railing creaks again: Bonnet's idiotic, simpering voice calls, "Ed? Would you mind giving me a hand?" and Edward turns back and reaches down to help him. Bonnet keeps blathering as Edward does all the work of getting him up the ladder, saying, "Sorry, sorry. I'm afraid I'm still not used to this, although up is better than down."

Bonnet clambers over the railing with less grace than Edward. He must've had a new wardrobe made; he's wearing a wine-colored frock coat and matching breeches, white shoes with impractical heels, and the frilliest, most ridiculous jabot Izzy has ever seen, all frothing lace. His hair glints gold in the dying sunlight, and Izzy hates him. He fucking despises him. And then he speaks first, and Izzy despises him even more.

He says, "Mister Hands, it's good to see you," like he has a wooden plank up his ass. He gives Jack a lingering, contemptuous look before adding, "I can't say the same about you."

"Watch yourself, Bonnet," Izzy snaps. "Jack is my first mate. You'll show him the respect that deserves, or I'll toss you off my ship."

Edward murmurs, "I told you so," but Bonnet talks over him, sputtering, "Your ship?" like the idea is preposterous. And to him, it probably is—he hates Izzy enough that he can't fathom him as anything other than a piece in Edward's arsenal. "We'd heard you'd mustered a crew, but I was sure there had been a misunderstanding. I thought—"

"You thought wrong, Bonnet," Izzy says, taking a few steps closer. Bonnet holds his ground—always fucking braver when Edward is around—but his eyes widen. Izzy shows him some teeth as he presses, "This is my ship. We had a little discussion about that before I left. Men and means, yeah? I have those, so you'd best mind your tongue."

Bonnet puffs himself up like some kind of pompous, overdressed rooster. He gestures at the Revenge and insists, "I have those things too."

Izzy scoffs. He says, "You only have three real cutthroats on that tub," although he suspects Jim's loyalties are more with Oluwande than Bonnet, and their revenge mission, which Izzy has only heard about in bits and pieces. "And two of them are Blackbeard's men, not yours. You—"

"Izzy," Edward cuts in.

There's an edge of warning to it, like Edward thinks he still has the right to give Izzy orders—like Izzy didn't fucking leave him, like he isn't standing on the deck of Izzy's ship—and anger stabs into Izzy's gut like a hot knife.

He whirls on him and asks, "What the fuck are you doing here, Ed?"

That startles a gasp out of the crew—maybe because of his tone, maybe because they can't believe someone would address the legendary fucking Blackbeard with such heat and familiarity. It startles Edward a little too. His mouth twists and his eyebrows draw together.

Before he can say anything about it, Bonnet—who must want to be gutted—drawls, "His name is Blackbeard, right? Isn't that what you're always telling me?"

Izzy snarls, "Bonnet," and puts his hand on his sword. "If you don't—"

"You are absolutely impossible, Israel Hands. Impossible. You—"

"—I will slice you open and watch you bleed on this fucking deck, you—"

"—We came all this way, and you can't even—"

"Stede," Edward says, sharp. "That's enough." He turns his attention back to Izzy and gives him a long, inscrutable look—a look that gets darker and narrower when Jack moves to stand at Izzy's shoulder. Then: "I was hoping we could talk, mate."

"About what?"

Edward cuts a weighted glance at Bonnet. Bonnet breathes in like he's gathering himself to do an unpleasant task and says, "We wanted to know if you'd consider returning to the Revenge."

A rough, ugly laugh hooks out of Izzy's throat. "Why the fuck would I consider doing that?"

"I want you to," Edward says.

It rises up all of a sudden: his impulse to give in, to make Edward happy. But he swallows it down and says, "Ed, doing what you want isn't my job anymore."

Bonnet gasps under his breath, but Izzy barely hears him. He's too struck by the expression that crosses Edward's face. It's a captain's prerogative to be right all the time; Izzy only needs one hand to count the number of times Edward has apologized for anything in the last decade. But right now, he genuinely looks fucking sorry.

He says, "Iz," quiet. "Just talk to us. Five minutes."

"I'll talk to you," Izzy relents, because Edward is Edward, and Izzy is fucking weak. "I have nothing to say to"—he jerks his head at Bonnet—"him."

"Izzy," Bonnet starts, like he even has the fucking right.

Izzy seethes, "That's Captain Hands to you," and eases his sword from his scabbard, enough to show Bonnet about a foot of steel. "Why are you even here, Bonnet? You wanted me off your ship and away from Ed, and I let you have that. I fucking stood down. You should be having a prissy fucking tea party about it."

Bonnet—gasping again—has the nerve to look gobsmacked. He opens his stupid mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. Before he can prattle himself into a slit throat, Jack steps between them. It startles Izzy into looking over his shoulder, and he finds that the crew is gone. Jack must've ordered them below deck or to the forecastle; Izzy hadn't even noticed.

Carefully, Jack puts his hand on the pommel of Izzy's sword and urges the blade back into the scabbard. He says, "Captain," like he wants Bonnet to feel it behind his teeth. "If you wanna go chat with Blackie, I can show Steve around your ship."

"If he gives you any shit, toss him overboard."

Jack snorts. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I can handle him."

He says it low—so low it's almost a whisper—but Edward must hear him, because he makes a noise that crawls up Izzy's spine and sinks its claws into the back of his neck. That argument was probably inevitable, but Izzy isn't having anywhere near Bonnet. He turns and stalks toward his cabin. He doesn't check to see if Edward is following him.

The cabin is a fucking mess. Izzy's still not used to being waited on hand and foot, so he's been chasing Jonathan away at every opportunity, mainly for his own sanity. Frock Coat's things are still strewn across one end of the table, and Izzy's forgotten lunch is sitting at the other. Izzy grabs the towel Jack dropped on the floor and tosses it toward the washstand. He's drawing the bedcurtains so Edward won't see the rumpled, come-stained blankets when the door creaks open and closed.

Edward pauses for a long moment before saying, "Not what I expected your cabin to look like."

"None of it's mine," Izzy says, shrugging. He fiddles with the closure on his glove, unwilling to examine why he never bothered settling in.

Another pause: excruciating, tense. Edward edges closer to Izzy, pausing at the less cluttered end of the table, where Jack's whip is lying in a messy coil beside Izzy's lunch. The orange has rolled off the tray. A stubborn corner of hardtack is poking out of the stew.

Edward says, "Maybe I shouldn't have come."

"Maybe you shouldn't have," Izzy retorts, as meanly as he can manage. He was never going to be content without Edward—not when Edward's the only thing he's ever really wanted—but if Edward had stayed away, he might've been content enough. He might've sailed another decade, or at least until he was as slow and hunched as William, and he might've made a name for himself doing it, a name that isn't just a piece of Blackbeard's legacy. And when he finally got cut down in a fight, Jack might've said something nice about him as he threw his body overboard. "But you didn't. You're here, and you wanted to talk."

Edward lifts Jack's hat from where it's hanging off the back of Izzy's chair. He spins it around his finger as he asks, "Have you been bunking with him?"

"What if I have?"

"I'll kill him."

"Only if I get to kill Bonnet."

Anger pulls at Edward's mouth, but he visibly bites it down. He asks, "Is that why you left? Because of Stede?"

"I left because Bonnet was never going to let me do my job," Izzy replies. It's not all of the truth, but it's as much as he's willing to give Edward right now. "I'm not dying because he's too imbecilic to run his ship and too arrogant to take advice."

"He shouldn't have undermined you like that," Edward says, tossing Jack's hat on the table. "He realizes that now."

"If he wants to apologize for it, he can do it himself."

"He would, if you'd talk to him."

"I don't want to fucking talk to him."

Edward tilts his head to the side. His mouth pulls again, but it's different this time—something almost smug. Izzy realizes he's seen right through him before he even says, "I was right. You are jealous."

There's no point denying it. Izzy says, "Maybe I am. I've given you a lot of my life."

"I've given you a lot of mine," Edward counters. "And it's never been just the two of us. You've never acted like this before."

Edward's not wrong; it never has just been the two of them. That's just how things are aboard a ship—any port in a storm, anything goes at sea. But Edward has never been this serious about anyone else. Or this fucking foolish.

Izzy says, "None of those other twats thought they were better than me. None of them told me you'd be better off without me."

"He—" Edward cuts off, frowning. His voice is rough when he asks, "Stede said that to you?"

"He didn't tell you?"

Edward shakes his head. A lock of his hair catches on a buckle on his jacket. "He told me that you argued about how you treat the crew, and that you said he owed you for letting him back on his ship."

Of course Bonnet mentioned that part. Of course. Izzy says, "It was your ship when he approached."

"And you never asked me if I wanted him to come aboard."

Izzy sighs and leans his shoulder against the wall. A dull headache is starting to throb behind his eyes, probably because he never ate his fucking lunch. "If you're expecting me to apologize for that—"

"I'm not," Edward cuts in. He makes the same regretful face he'd made on deck, and Izzy feels it in his chest. "I want to apologize to you."

"For what?"

"For your toe."

"Don't," Izzy snaps.

"Iz—"

"No, Edward." Breathe. Breathe. "You had weeks to apologize for that. Weeks. I don't want to hear it now just because having Bonnet back has you feeling tender." Edward's eyes go wide, and Izzy feels that in his chest too, but he clenches his ungloved fist until his nails bite into his palm. He makes himself keep talking. "It got infected; did you know that?"

"No."

"It got infected," Izzy grits, furious, "because you had me up and walking on it right after you did it. Roach had to drain it for me. It hurt so bad I nearly begged him to take the whole foot off." He's tired, suddenly—so fucking tired—but he clenches his fist harder and continues, "I just barely learned to walk again. I nearly died taking this ship because I lost my balance in a fight."

"You—" Edward says, his temper flaring. "You told me you should've let the English kill me."

"Yeah, I did," Izzy admits. "I shouldn't have. I fucking shouldn't have. But I did it because I thought you might stop crying all day and drinking all night if you forgot fucking Bonnet and remembered how to be a pirate again." An ugly, horrible laugh crawls out of his throat. "Maybe Bonnet was right. Maybe it was my fault you were off your head while he was gone. But I fucking paid for it."

Another pause. Edward brushes at the hair snagged on his jacket, then taps his fingers on the table, right beside Jack's whip. He sounds somewhere between angry and resigned when he asks, "Has he been good to you?"

"It's not like that."

"Iz," Edward presses, a hint of Blackbeard in his voice. He takes a step closer. "Tell me."

Izzy says, "Yeah, he's been good to me," and hopes it hurts a little bit.

It must, because Edward's mouth tightens. He warns, "I really will kill him if he hasn't been," and his hand twitches like he's stopping himself from reaching for his knife. Izzy nearly calls him a possessive twat, but then he asks, "Do you want to cut anchor?" and Izzy's chest is aching again.

He has to clear his throat before asking, "Do you?"

"I'm asking you."

"No," Izzy says, because it's true. He wouldn't anchor himself to someone else—give this much of himself to someone else—even if he was free to. He wouldn't fucking know how. "But if you—"

"I don't," Edward insists, temper flaring again. "But you left without a word, and now you're sailing on your own hook and bunking with someone else. What am I supposed to think?"

"Ed—"

"He sleeps in here?"

"Yeah."

"He called you sweetheart," Edward growls, and it's dangerous—not Blackbeard, but dangerous. "He said it right in front of me."

Izzy's injured leg is starting to hurt. Edward is blocking the chair, one arm resting along the back, so he opens one of the bedcurtains and sits on the edge of the bed. He says, "Ed, just tell me what you want," and runs a hand through his hair.

"You," Edward says. He walks over to stand in front of Izzy—close, too fucking close. "I want you. I want you on my ship, and in my bed. I don't know how to set a course without you." He cups Izzy's face and rubs his thumb over the X on Izzy's cheek. "You're probably right; I shouldn't have come. But I had to. You're mine."

"Ed." Izzy's throat is closing up. "Just—"

"Do you remember when we met?" Edward asks.

"Yeah," Izzy replies. Edward had been a different man back then—hair shorter, face clean-shaven, seventeen or eighteen, but still all bones and angles from growing up without enough to eat. Even then, he'd been the most stupidly beautiful thing Izzy had ever seen. "Yeah, I remember."

"You were bunking with Bellamy," Edward says, his voice dark, almost resentful. "I hated him for it. I hardly knew you, and I hated him for it. Every time he touched you, it felt like he was taking something away from me." He rubs Izzy's X tattoo again, then slides his hand down to Izzy's neck. "Will you come home?"

The Revenge isn't home, not the way the Queen Anne had been, or even the La Concorde or the Ranger. But he could live on a leaky fishing boat if Edward was there with him. Having Edward would be enough.

He touches Edward's hip and says, "Yeah."



+++



"He fuck you like this?" Edward asks, right in Izzy's ear.

He's sprawled on top of Izzy from head to toe, using his weight to pin Izzy to the bed, flat on his back. He's rolling his hips so slowly that Izzy's close to going out of his mind, and he won't stop kissing and sucking Izzy's tits. It's been less than an hour since Jack got Izzy off, and Izzy isn't in his twenties anymore. He's hard again, somehow, but his cock fucking aches. Each time it ruts against Edward's stomach, he nearly jolts out of his skin.

"You said he's been good to you." Edward curls his tongue around Izzy's nipple, teasing the ring until Izzy is gasping and yanking at his hair. "Was he sweet like this?"

Izzy hisses, "Ed," and arches up as much as he can. Sweat is stinging his eyes, and he has Edward's hair in his mouth. "Ed, please."

Edward makes a low, rough noise and rocks into Izzy—harder now, but still too slow. "Did you beg for him? Did you tell him you need it?"

"No."

"Tell me."

Izzy tips is head back and scratches down Edward's back. "I need it."

"Yeah, you do. You—fuck—" Edward shudders, pushing into the bite of Izzy's nails. The hand he has at Izzy's hip squeezes like a vise. "Did you come when he called you sweetheart?"

"Yeah," Izzy admits quietly. His face flushes; every part of him is on fire.

Edward makes another noise: something caught between arousal and possessive fury. He snaps his hips a few times—still too slow, but hard enough that the bed creaks. He asks, "Do you want me to call you sweetheart?"

"No," Izzy says, because it's true. Edward hasn't called him stupid names before—not once in twenty-seven years. He doesn't want him to start now just because he's jealous of fucking Jack. "Ed, fuck me."

Edward puts his mouth back on Izzy's tit, sucking the ring between the lips and tugging, tugging, tugging. He rocks into Izzy as he does it—harder, almost faster—and Izzy's cock rides and rides and rides against his stomach. Edward's pants rasp against the insides of Izzy's thighs. A moan hitches in Izzy's throat, and Izzy hooks a leg around Edward's hip. He brings his hands down to Edward's ass and tries to urge him to fucking move.

"He can't fucking have you," Edward swears. It's urgent, low. He slides his mouth up to Izzy's collarbone and bites down. "You're mine."

Izzy says, "Yeah," because that's true too.

And Edward—Edward fucking comes. It seems to surprise him: his mouth falls open, and his hips stutter, and his hand scrabbles at Izzy's hip like he's chasing a snapped line in the wind. He takes a long, deep breath and mumbles, "Iz, fuck," and runs his hand over Izzy's cock. Izzy fucks up into it, making a whining noise behind his teeth. Edward touches him again, then shifts down the bed and sucks him into his mouth.

"Fuck."

Edward draws up and down a few times, all slow warmth and wet tongue, and pushes three fingers into Izzy's ass. Izzy jerks into it and grabs at Edward's hair and shoulder, and Edward pulls up long enough to drag a messy kiss over the head of Izzy's cock. He says, "C'mon, Iz. Come for me," and sinks back down and down and down.

It's too much—the spit-slick heat, the press and curl and nudge of Edward's fingers. Izzy comes, his back arching and his toes curing, his thighs shaking as Edward sucks him through it. He's still catching his breath when Edward shifts back up the bed. Edward presses a sticky kiss to his jaw, then rolls over and sits up. He wipes his messy fingers on the blankets like a complete fucking ass.

He asks, "Do you need the crew to help with your things?" and grabs his jacket and shirt, the only things he'd bothered to take off.

"No," Izzy replies. He doesn't have much: just the ditty bag he never unpacked and a sack of coins he found in one of Frock Coat's stowage chests. Jack can have his share of the loot; it's not worth ferrying over to the Revenge. "I need to talk to Jack, though."

Edward—dressed now—makes a noise in his throat. He walks over to the table, then pulls his knife, then stabs it into the circle made by the coil of Jack's whip. He says, "I'll get him," in something close to a snarl, the possessive fucking twat.

Izzy's legs feel like water, but he makes himself roll over and stand up. He's mostly dressed—one boot on, one leg in his pants, his shirt unbuttoned but still on. He gets that sorted and shrugs into his vest. He's fixing his tie when the door opens and Jack strides in.

Jack glances at Edward's knife as he passes the table and huffs, "Jealous bastard," just loud enough for Izzy to hear. He gives Izzy a long, speculative look. There's mischief under his mustache when he says, "Blackie tells me you're leaving with him."

"Yeah."

Jack looks at Izzy again, then crowds up against him so quickly that he has an arm around Izzy's waist before Izzy can dodge him, not that he has anywhere to go with the bed right behind him. Jack says, "You two sure were in here a long time," and slides his hand down to cup Izzy's ass.

"Fuck off," Izzy spits.

"You let him fuck you?" Jack asks, undeterred. He teases his fingers into the crease of Izzy's ass—low enough that Izzy feels it where he's aching, even through his pants—and he chuckles in Izzy's ear when Izzy shivers. "Yeah, you did. Bet you're still all open and wet. Bet I could slide right in."

"Jack," Izzy presses, with enough bite that Jack takes a step back. "Don't try to change my mind."

Jack chuckles again. He says, "Nah, sweetheart. I'm not," and takes another step back. "I knew which way the wind was blowing that first night in the Republic. If you were serious about leaving him, you woulda stopped wearing that." He taps the ring on Izzy's tie. "You woulda burned off that tattoo, or had me cover it up."

It seems so obvious now that Jack is pointing it out—obvious enough that Izzy should've realized it before. He hadn't stopped wearing his ring or covered his tattoo for the same reason he never unpacked his ditty back or tossed out Frock Coat's things. He was never going to let go of Edward. Even if Edward hadn't come for him, part of him always would have been wanting him to.

"Jack," Izzy starts, because he should probably say something, but Jack waves him off.

He says, "Don't worry, sweetheart. I told you, I knew what was going on. I—" He shrugs. "I figured we'd have fun for a little bit, and then Blackie would come take you home, and I'd get a ship out of it, if he didn't gut me for touching you."

Izzy hefts the ditty bag over his shoulder and starts for the door. Halfway there—and after grabbing Edward's knife—he turns around and says, "Jack, remember what you said the other day? About drinking too much?"

"Yeah," Jack replies, quiet.

"Don't."

"I'll try. Someone's gotta take care of the kid. Can't do that if I'm down a bottle all the time."

Izzy suggests, "The next time you're in the Republic, ask Jackie again. She said she'd ask around."

"William's got a daughter in Barbados," Jack says. "She's got a couple brats of her own, and I guess they're spoiled rotten. William thinks she'd be good to him. I'll ask him if he wants off the ship."

"He's child," Izzy points out. "You don't have to ask him."

Jack shrugs again. "You and me, we never got many choices. Blackie neither. Or Sam. I figure I'll let this kid have a few before he ends up like us."

Izzy nods and heads for the door.



+



Izzy doesn't look at the Revenge as Edward rows the distance between the ships. He doesn't look at the Adventure either. He stares out at the water, his ditty bag between his feet and the sack of coins in his lap. Bonnet is a flowery-smelling shadow behind him. Izzy's gut knots in a way that has nothing to do with the rocking of the dinghy, but he breathes it down. It's too late to change his mind. Jack is already shouting for his crew to weigh anchor and open sail, and Edward wouldn't turn around now anyway.

When they get to the Revenge, Bonnet goes up first, which takes a lot of heaving from Edward from the bottom and pulling from Oluwande and Wee John from the top. Edward goes up after him, then leans down and grabs the bags Izzy hands up. He and Bonnet are gone from the railing by the time he climbs up himself.

The deck is silent as he hops down from the railing. He can feel Bonnet's lot watching him as he crosses over to Bonnet and Edward, who are standing by the capstan. Frenchie shuffles his feet; Jim crosses their arms. Lucius gives Izzy a long, narrow look and whispers something in Black Pete's ear.

Finally, the Swede asks, "What's he doing here?"

"He's my first mate," Edward replies, sharp.

After a pause—and more silence—Bonnet says, "He's our first mate. I know we've had our differences with Mister Hands, but he's a very good pirate." He still sounds like he has a plank up his ass. "I think we can learn quite a bit from him, if we endeavor to meet each other in the middle. Now… it's getting late. Roach, how long until dinner?"

"We've still got some of that stew from lunch," Roach replies. "I can have it hot in twenty minutes."

"Sounds wonderful," Bonnet coos. "Everyone else, take the next twenty minutes as free time. Except you, Mister Buttons. Edward and I need to talk to you about our course for tomorrow."

The crew disperses in handfuls, some to the forecastle and some to the hatch. As Izzy is reaching for his bags, Ivan comes up to him and asks, "Need help, Boss?"

"Yeah," Izzy replies. "Who am I tossing out of my cabin?"

Ivan shakes his head. "Nobody. Couple of the guys have been using it to fuck in," he explains, which makes Izzy sneer, "but Captain Blackbeard wouldn't let Bonnet promote anyone. Said he wasn't having anyone else as his first mate."

"Oh," Izzy mumbles, feeling a little warm and a lot surprised. "I… take it to my cabin."

Ivan says, "Got it," and starts for the forecastle. Before Izzy can follow him, Oluwande steps in front of him.

"You wouldn't let me thank you before," he blurts. "And I… um. I really think I should."

That's the last thing Izzy wants, but he figures standing there and listening to it instead of stabbing is way to his cabin is endeavoring to meet in the middle or whatever the fuck Bonnet had said.

"Fine."

Oluwande gapes at him for a moment, surprised. A beat passes before he says, "Thank you for saving us," awkwardly.

"I," Izzy starts. "You—you're welcome."

With that, Izzy figures he's endeavored enough, so he turns and walks toward the forecastle. He's fucking starving, but he's also exhausted, and he'd rather keelhaul himself than eat with Bonnet's crew. He's debating napping through dinner and sneaking down to the galley for some hardtack later when he opens the forecastle door and walks right into Roach.

"Hey, man," Roach says. "I was just looking for you."

"Why?"

"I wanted to know if you wanted some coffee."

And that—that loosens something in Izzy's chest. It makes him think this might work out after all, if he doesn't slip up and put his sword through Bonnet's gut.

He smiles a little and says, "Yeah. I'd like that."