Chapter Text
The first time Roach brings it up, it’s casual. He mentions that his former captain was distinctly more unfair, inconsiderate of his crew and of Roach especially. Roach had been picked up in a raid and wasn’t from the original makeup of the ship’s crew, and when he replaced their fallen cook, he was not accepted effortlessly. Punishments came quick, cruel, and unusual. When Izzy responds with indignation, Roach only laughs and strokes a soothing hand down Izzy’s bicep, squeezing gently.
“It is no big deal,” he says softly. “It is the past.”
Izzy lets it go, but doesn’t stop thinking about it.
The second time, it’s a bit of a bigger deal. Izzy’s never seen Roach fly so quickly into such a rage. The raid ongoing around them, Bonnet’s crew— Izzy’s crew— holding their own, Izzy finds himself finished with his own job rather quickly, leaving the man collapsed in a pile at his feet as he heads off. He finds Roach only moments later, covered in blood, a wild look in his eye that Izzy isn’t quite familiar with. He holds the man up by his beard, long fingers knotted in the wiry hair, the edge of his cleaver slicing the man’s cheek open.
“...and take it for a trophy, hm? I could keep it, display it,” Roach murmurs, and Izzy realizes all at once that he’s slowly slicing around the edge of the man’s beard, the man’s head falling further back every inch Roach moves. “What was it again, that you used to tell me? Serving me a warning?”
“Roach,” Izzy says softly, voice firm. Roach looks up at him, eyes wide, corners of his mouth curled up. “We don’t have time, they’re burning the ship. We need to go.”
At the look on Roach’s face, Izzy thinks for a moment that the taller man is going to stay. That he’ll have to drag him out of here, kicking and screaming. The man in Roach’s hand whimpers, a pathetic noise, and Roach looks back down at him. He takes the cleaver across the man’s throat, letting the body drop. He stands in silence for a moment, staring down at the lifeless body before looking back up at Izzy.
“Alright,” he says. “Lead the way.”
“He was in my old crew,” he says. “First mate.”
“I wanted to skin him,” he says. “But I would not make you watch.”
Izzy sucks in a breath but nods. He won’t ask for more details than Roach is willing to give, but his skin crawls to think about it. He wonders how many of Roach’s former crew are left and where they may be now. He wonders how easy they may be to get ahold of.
The third time, Izzy asks. Roach is sitting at the end of his bed, a small cake on a platter in his hands. His brows are furrowed as he cuts the cake into manageable pieces meant to be eaten by hand. Izzy clears his throat and he looks up at him.
“What?”
“I was—would you—I want to know about your old crew.”
Roach tenses, eyeing Izzy suspiciously. “Why?”
Izzy fidgets for a moment before sighing. “I want to find them.”
Roach raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because I think they deserve what’s fucking coming to them, Roach, and I want to be the one there to witness it,” Izzy breathes out all at once. “I want to make them hurt—I don’t want them to get away with how they treated you. I want to find them.”
Roach looks at Izzy for a long time, breathing slowly. There’s a lot happening in his expression that Izzy isn’t willing to attempt to pick apart, so he looks down at the cake, stealing a piece. Roach’s eyes burn holes into Izzy’s skin, setting him alight. He feels exposed.
“You want to defend my honor,” is what Roach finally says. Izzy glances up at him.
“Sure, something like that.”
“You want to avenge me.”
“That—yeah. Essentially.” Izzy lays back, leaning against the wall at the head of his bed and appraising Roach. “So?”
Roach inhales, leaning against the wall at the side of the bed, still looking at Izzy. He puts a piece of cake in his mouth, chewing slowly. He sighs. “What do you want to know?”
Izzy shrugs. He hadn’t actually thought through what he wanted to know or what he would do after he learned. “Everything.”
A bitter laugh escapes Roach’s throat. “We do not have the time,” he scoffs. “I will not tell you everything.”
“Whatever you can, then,” Izzy replies. “I want to find them, Roach.”
“I was in Captain Low’s crew,” Roach said, voice quiet but firm. Izzy’s eyes widen and Roach nods solemnly. “Yes,” he says softly. “Explains a lot, no?”
Captain Ned Low, a pirate known solely for being crueler than Blackbeard himself. Known for treating his crew members like objects—for using them, torturing them, and finding ways more creative than the last any time the urge struck. Some of the scars Izzy continues to find in places he’s growing familiar with begin to make sense.
“As I said, his cook had been murdered in a raid. I am not sure if it was intentional or not, nor whose crew did the deed. I happened to be on the ship—I was heading to Nassau.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I never made it.”
“How long were you on the crew?”
“A while.” Roach pauses, considering. “I stopped counting days once they had become months. It was how it was. I just needed to survive.”
“I’m glad you did,” Izzy tells him. Roach shrugs a shoulder in response.
“Life goes on,” he murmurs. “I would like to sleep now.”
Izzy shifts over, taking the plate from Roach and setting it on the floor next to the bed. Roach slides in next to him, between his own body and the wall, cushioning his head on Izzy’s chest. Izzy isn’t sure if either of them really fall asleep.
He finds Jim at the helm the next morning.
“How are you with tracking men down?” Jim fixes him with an unimpressed look. “I need a favor.”
“A favor?” Jim raises an eyebrow. “Better be good, cabrón.”
“You’ve heard of Captain Low.” It’s a statement, not a question. Jim nods slowly. “We’re going to kill him.”
Jim raises their eyebrows, taking Izzy in. They turn to fully face him, leaning on the wheel. “Are we?”
Izzy nods once, taking the wheel from Jim. “He was Roach’s former captain.”
A look of understanding crosses Jim’s face, followed quickly by the very beginnings of some kind of rage. They nod. “Okay.”
Over the course of the next day and a half, Izzy and Jim formulate a plan. Izzy has contacts who can provide them a boat—Jim has contacts who can provide them information. They have the semblance of a path, of a goal, and they’re only waiting on a confirmed destination. It’s lunchtime on the second day, Roach serving yet another meal far too rich for pirates, when Jim finally brings it up.
“When are you going to tell him?” Izzy winces. “You are going to tell him.”
“I am,” he concedes. “Just…haven’t decided. Fuck off.”
“You want to leave tonight, viejo, you should talk to him now.” Jim raises their eyebrows, nodding toward Roach as he approaches.
Izzy sighs. “M’not fucking old.”
With a soft snort, Jim shakes their head. “Tell him.”
Roach looks between the two as he sits down, brushing his shoulder against Izzy’s own and leaning into him, almost imperceptibly. “Tell me what?”
Izzy sighs again, holding Jim’s gaze. “You don’t have to come,” he begins, forcing himself to look at Roach, who raises a singular eyebrow. “But we’re going to find Low.”
Though he doesn’t freeze, it’s a near thing. Roach’s chewing slows, his eyes narrowing as he looks at Izzy. His gaze flicks to Jim, whose face remains carefully blank, though they tilt their head in a minute challenge. Roach swallows carefully, gaze settling back on Izzy. He sets his fork down.
“Why?”
It’s a simple question, but one that Izzy has a million responses for—yet somehow, he can’t find any words. He wants to tell Roach that it only makes sense, that this is what you do when someone hurts someone you love, that this is the way you protect people. It’s what you’re supposed to do, how you make up for not being able to protect them the first time. It’s just how it works. Izzy doesn’t have the words to say this to Roach, so he doesn’t.
“Fuck you mean, why? It’s my fucking job,” he says instead, tearing his gaze away from Roach’s face, picking at his food once more.
“Izzy Hands,” Roach says softly. “Why?”
“It’s the shit you do when you love someone, Roach,” Jim says with a sigh. “That’s how it works.”
“Yeah.” Izzy shoves another bite of stew into his mouth. “So fu’off,” he snarks, though it comes out slurred and muffled by food. Roach looks at him for a long time, and Izzy knows that he shares a glance with Jim over his own head, but he glares resolutely at the table. Eventually, there’s a soft touch to his thigh. He looks up. Roach looks resigned, the corners of his mouth turned down, but he nods.
“Okay,” he says. “I will come.” He squeezes Izzy’s thigh once before he releases it, turning back to the rest of the table to listen to Frenchie’s tirade about the bad luck of bananas on ships, adamant that they will not be picking any up in port. Izzy meets Jim’s gaze. Though in all aspects, the conversation with Roach had been a success, he felt unsettled. Guilty, perhaps.
They don’t speak much the rest of the meal, though Roach keeps his shoulder pressed against Izzy’s. Izzy shares glances with Jim, who shrugs, but ultimately decides that it’s a later issue to handle. Logically, he knows that if Roach is uncomfortable or wants Izzy to stop, he’ll open the conversation, but some part of him itches anyway. He tries not to think about it.
He goes through the motions for the rest of the night, completing his usual tasks and directing the crew as if they’ll retain anything he says. He may be fond of them, but he is more than well aware that the vast majority of their loyalty was only won over by his involvement with Roach. He remembers when they tried to throw him overboard—his own partner included.
He meets with the captains, nodding along, only quirking an eyebrow once at Bonnet’s inane bullshit before he’s dismissed for the evening. Even the blond captain has worked his way into Izzy’s good graces, though he’s loath to admit it. Lost in thought and attempts at planning, he finds himself wandering onto the deck, looking out at a dark sea before him. He’s startled out of his own head by Livy landing at his side, gazing up at him with beady eyes.
“Fuck off,” he grouses. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Talking to birds, now, are we?” Jim comes to stand on Izzy’s other side, leaning their back against the ship’s railing. “Character development, I guess.”
Izzy heaves a sigh, glancing at the stars and begging anyone listening to preserve his sanity. “You can fuck off too.”
Jim snorts. “You’re stuck with me, viejo. At least if you want to win.”
Izzy hums, reaching out and scratching the bird’s head with his finger. Jim keeps looking at him and he makes a pointed effort to ignore them, to focus on the seagull and her beady little stare. She makes a soft sound at him, turning her face and pecking at his hand. He swears she’s laughing at him, and he finally turns to face Jim. They look silently at each other for a few long moments, until Jim shakes their head.
“We leave tomorrow,” they remind him. “I’d make up with him beforehand or it’s going to be a long few days on a boat together.”
“We aren’t fighting,” Izzy argues, though it sounds hollow. Jim fixes him with a look. “Yeah, alright, whatever. I’ll talk to him.”
“Do more than that, viejo. Convince him it’s a battle worth fighting.”
“You’re all about the revenge stuff, why don’t you talk to him?” Izzy frowns, crossing his arms. “He might listen to you.”
Jim scoffs, reaching out and smacking Izzy on the back of the head. “Not my fight, Hands. Be a grown-up.”
Rolling his eyes, Izzy pulls away from Jim. He flips them off as he walks away, only to be met with an indignant noise from the bird. He can’t be fucked to turn back around, so he keeps going, only slightly on edge with worry for how Roach may receive him—if Roach has even chosen to sleep with Izzy tonight. Something cold settles in Izzy’s chest. In the past three months, he hasn’t had yet to spend a full night without Roach at his side. Sure, there’s been night watch and raids and post-raids when Roach is needed elsewhere, or Izzy is tending to the captains or otherwise handling business, but not once a full night where neither of them have come to bed for at least an hour or two.
Once the thought has entered his mind, he can’t shake it. Why would Roach want to spend the night after he told Izzy he didn’t want to talk about his past and Izzy turned around to dig it all back up—and for what? A semblance of heroism? A chance to be the ultimate protector in Roach’s story? To be his savior? Izzy snorts to himself. Roach had saved his damn self and had moved on, had healed all on his own, and here was Izzy, stirring the shit all back to the surface. Izzy freezes at his cabin door. He mumbles a near-silent prayer to a deity he doesn’t believe in that his cabin won’t be void of life when he crosses the threshold, and he pushes through the door. It shuts behind him with a click.
For a few moments, Izzy stands in silence, listening. He listens for breathing, for the movement of sheets, for any tiny telltale sign that he hasn’t been left desolate. All he hears is the rushing in his own ears. His own heartbeat, and the air leaving his own nose. He inhales shakily.
“Are you coming to the bed, or are you spending the night standing like a horse in a stable?”
Roach’s voice is soft, an underlying gentleness beneath the snarky words. All of the air in Izzy’s lungs leaves him in a rush, his lungs collapsing inside his chest with relief.
“I’m coming,” he rasps. “I just—I needed a moment, that’s all.”
Roach doesn’t reply and Izzy strips free of his leathers, letting them pile onto the floor. In the dark of the room around him, Izzy tries to force himself not to think of the ways he may have fucked up, may have unintentionally upset Roach without meaning to, may have overstepped as he always seems to do. He takes a deep, shaky breath and moves toward the bed. Roach shifts over, making space where there wasn’t before, and Izzy stretches out next to him. He keeps to himself at first, making himself as small as he can.
There’s a soft sigh next to him. “Stop thinking.”
Izzy squeezes his eyes closed. “M’not.”
A responding snort. “Do not lie to me, little man.” Roach shifts, his hand coming to rest on Izzy’s chest, just over his heart, where Izzy and Roach both know even in the dark that black ink mars the skin, put there by Roach himself. A tribute to his own protection symbol over his own heart. Something unknots inside Izzy’s chest.
“Are you mad at me?” Out loud, his voice sounds small, childlike even in its throaty rasp. Embarrassing at the least, vulnerable and exposing. He brings a hand up, covering Roach’s with his own and feeling his racing pulse even through the taller man’s touch.
“Mmm, never that,” Roach replies. “Curious. Concerned. Confused. Never angry. Not with you. Not for this.” He digs his fingertips into Izzy’s bare chest. “Understand?”
“Right.” Izzy turns onto his side, though he keeps his hand holding Roach’s in place. He reaches out with his free hand, setting over the center of Roach’s chest and the small swallow etched into the skin there. In the dark of the room, he can only make out Roach’s outline and he mourns the visual loss. The weight of Roach’s hand settles over Izzy’s own. They both stay silent in the darkness, unable to see each other, yet finding comfort in the shared presence regardless.
Before them, the night stretches on. The familiarity of the Revenge surrounds them, settling over their skin and cushioning itself on their bare skin, collecting in their shared breath. Roach’s thumb moves in tight circles on Izzy’s chest but Izzy keeps his own hand perfectly still on Roach’s, feeling the other man’s pulse reverberate through his fingertips, through his palm, up his arm. Slowly, it sinks into matching his own. Izzy inhales slowly, holding his breath and listening to Roach’s own, loud in the quiet room.
Roach’s thumb slowly stops moving, resting all at once on Izzy’s chest motionlessly, the weight of it warm against his skin. In the quiet air, Roach’s voice settles around Izzy tightly as he wills himself to fall asleep. “Do not die for me, Izzy Hands.”
Izzy blinks, wishing desperately for a moment that the room was bright enough to see Roach’s face. “M’not going to die, Roach.”
The other man hums. “I will be very upset.”
“Roach,” Izzy repeats. “I’m not going to die.”
“He is a bad man,” Roach says quietly. “Either be worse, or be prepared.”
“Well, we’ll have Jim, so—”
“Just be careful, is all,” Roach says, cutting Izzy off. “Please.”
“Okay,” Izzy replies, tapping Roach’s chest firmly. “Alright.”
Roach exhales softly, but seems satisfied. He shifts, pulling Izzy in and tucking him firmly against his body. Izzy breathes in slowly, surrounded entirely by the taller man, and finally allows himself to fully relax, sinking into the blankets and Roach’s embrace. He figures they have plenty of days ahead of them to lie awake in worry. Nothing will change tonight. Tonight, they sleep.
***
Their tiny sloop is fully prepared, bobbing in the water where she floats, still attached to the Revenge. La Media Naranja— named by Oluwande—is small enough to be easily manned by three people and quick enough to keep pace with ships four times her size. A good, trustworthy vessel. Izzy likes her enough, won’t mind captaining her, and thinks she looks rather commanding, even as small as she is.
Stede joins him where he stands at the rail. “A beautiful vessel, Mr. Hands.”
Izzy rolls his eyes. “I have good taste.”
“Oh, I am aware.” They lapse into silence for a few moments before the man speaks again. “You… will come back, won’t you?”
“That’s the plan, Bonnet.”
“Right, yes, it’s just that…” He trails off. Izzy finds himself rolling his eyes again, turning toward the captain. He raises an eyebrow and Stede’s shoulders slump. “We worry.”
If at all possible, Izzy feels his eyebrow inch further up his forehead. “We?”
Stede turns pink. “Well, yes, and I know you’re a grown man and very capable—”
“Been on the sea longer than you’ve been a man, Bonnet.”
“—Right, yes, I know, but you’re our first mate—”
“Co- first mate.”
“Yes, Israel, would you mind terribly letting me say my piece?” Stede finally huffs, crossing his arms. “It’s just that you are an important part of our crew and you’re taking two other very important parts of our crew and I would just prefer it significantly if all of you returned in the same state in which you’re leaving!”
Izzy blinks, then a grin curls around his lips. “Bonnet, you’re going to make me think you like me.”
Stede fixes him with a thoroughly bitchy look, though his cheeks are still pink. “You’re an asset to my crew, Israel. I’m not a stupid man.”
Despite everything, a laugh tears itself from Izzy’s throat. “I promise to return your assets in good condition, gently used if anything. Don’t worry yourself, Bonnet.”
Smoothing his hands down his chest, Stede huffs. “I’m a worrier.”
“That you are, Captain,” Roach says, approaching the two. His gaze fixes on Izzy. “Jim says we are ready.”
“Alright.” Izzy gives a tight nod. Stede reaches forward, resting a hand on both men’s biceps and squeezing sharply.
“Come back in one piece, men. And don’t hesitate to call for us if things…go awry.”
“If things go awry, we will be dead,” Roach says flatly. “Probably in many pieces.”
Stede visibly pales, swallowing hard. He squeezes them again. “Right. Well. If we could avoid that—”
Jim’s head appears at the side of the ship, clearly halfway down the ladder. “Are you fuckers coming? I’m not doing this shit for me.”
Gingerly, Roach reaches out and pats his captain on the shoulder. “We will be back, Captain.” Stede nods, releasing both of their arms and stepping back.
Izzy slides his gaze to Ed, standing slightly behind Stede, his brow furrowed. He meets Izzy’s gaze and jerks his head to the side. Izzy sighs. “Go on, I’ll be there in a second. Don’t let Jim leave without me.”
Roach scoffs. “It is your trip.” But he goes, following Jim into the rowboat at the Revenge’s side.
“I can go with you,” Ed says, voice hard. “I can help—”
“Boss,” Izzy cuts him off, shaking his head slightly. “You aren’t coming.”
“I can help—”
“No.” Izzy keeps his voice firm, more a command than anything else. “Bonnet’ll run the ship aground again if you aren’t here to watch.”
“He’s gotten better!” Ed protests, but seems to deflate. He’s silent for a moment. “You’ll call for us if you get fucked?”
Izzy scoffs. “We’re gonna be fuckin’ fine, Captain. We’ll be back.”
Ed looks at him for a long moment, and when he next speaks, his tone is short and clipped. “You’ll all be back?”
“Think I’m too old to track down a fuckin’ pirate?”
“No, I think you’re an idiot who’s gonna get himself fuckin’ killed for his fuckin’ boyfriend,” Ed replies with a scoff. “I think you’re fuckin’…dunno, gonna throw yourself on a fuckin’ blade or some shit if he gets himself in trouble.”
“I’m not you, boss, I’m not going jumping in front of firing squads,” Izzy says softly, rolling his eyes. “But I do have to go.” He glances toward the side of the ship, before meeting Ed’s gaze again. “We’ll be careful. I’m not fuckin’ stupid.”
“I know you’re no—okay.” Ed inhales slowly. “Just don’t—don’t be a hero. If things are fuckin’ bad, just—just get out of there. Bring Stede’s cook back, he’s gonna make Frenchie cry.”
Izzy snorts. “Yes, captain.”
With a sharp nod, Ed claps him on the back and turns away, heading back to Stede. The blond captain takes his hand, squeezing it. Izzy climbs down into the rowboat, finding both members of his tiny vengeful crew, and Oluwande. He raises an eyebrow.
With a sigh, Oluwande shrugs. “Captain told me to bring the boat back after you three get off safely.”
Jim snorts. “He’s our babysitter.”
Roach laughs, the corners of his eyes scrunching up, and Izzy rolls his eyes again. “Is he hoping we change our minds?”
“Absolutely,” Oluwande agrees as he begins rowing. “I think I’m supposed to be convincing Jim to stay.”
“You can,” Roach tells Jim, voice serious. “Izzy and I will be fine.”
“Shut up,” Jim responds, and says nothing else. Izzy meets Oluwande’s gaze, who shrugs. Izzy just sighs.
With hardly the sound of flapping wings, Livy lands on the bow of the tiny rowboat, tilting his head at Izzy. Izzy raises his eyebrows, and the bird’s feather ruffle, rearranging as she appears to settle in for the ride. Despite himself, Izzy huffs a laugh.
Turning back to look at the Revenge as they move quickly toward their new, temporary home, Izzy has a brief moment of doubt where he wonders whether or not he really is walking the three of them down a short road to their deaths, if his own asinine need to avenge Roach is a death wish for himself and the two people he’s dragging down with him. If he perhaps should have made an effort to look beyond himself, beyond the view a man living and breathing piracy is bound to have, to allow bygones to be bygones and be content to continue looking forward instead of delving so thoroughly into the past.
If this was Roach’s fight and he should have let him pick the battles.
One thing is entirely certain, and that is that if anything happens to either other member of his tiny crew, Izzy will never forgive himself. He will never be able to return to the Revenge, to face Ed and know that he recognized his stupidity and attempted to divert him, to face Stede and know that he cost him his chef, his doctor, and two of his greatest assets in the crew. Izzy glances toward Oluwande, at Jim’s hand resting just above his knee, and Izzy looks away again. He will never be able to deliver the news to Oluwande that he cost him his partner.
“You are thinking very loudly,” Roach says softly, knocking his knee against Izzy’s. He raises his eyebrows. “You need to stop.”
“What if—”
“None of that,” Roach says, cutting him off. “We do not need what ifs. None of that.”
Izzy sighs. “We could still—”
Roach cuts him off again. “Quiet, little man. None of that.”
They lapse into silence. La Media Naranja looms before them faster than Izzy had thought possible. It’s only moments before they’re climbing out: first Izzy, then Roach. Izzy watches from the deck as Jim lingers behind, exchanging words with Oluwande. Jim grips Oluwande’s chin, telling the man something Izzy can’t hear from the deck, but Oluwande finally nods and they release his face. They bend down and kiss their partner softly, once on the lips, once on the nose, once on the forehead.
Izzy looks away.
When Jim finally climbs onto the deck, all three adventure-bound pirates stand at the rail to watch as Oluwande begins his journey back to the Revenge. After a few minutes, in silence, they each set about preparing themselves to sail. Izzy takes his place at the helm, waiting for Jim’s word. Roach disappears belowdecks.
The sails go up and the ship begins to move, pulling them away from the Revenge. Alone on deck, Izzy keeps their boat firmly on course, though he turns to watch the other ship grow smaller. She grows small quickly, attesting to the speed of La Media Naranja, and Izzy’s chest tightens the slightest bit. Livy lands on the wheel, close enough to Izzy’s hand that his feathers brush his knuckles, and the thing in Izzy’s chest unclenches. Though he doesn’t turn to look at the bird, he feels her tiny presence there, and somehow, he feels reassured.
“We’ll be back,” he says aloud. “We’ll be back.”
On the empty deck, he receives no response from the bird, and as the Revenge fades until she’s hardly recognizable as a ship, Izzy faces forward once more. He scratches Livy’s head. Into the storm, he supposes. They’ve got a fight to win.