Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

To say the least, it’s going better than expected.

It isn’t that Izzy thought the voyage itself would go poorly, but truthfully, he wasn’t meant to be a captain and he wasn’t sure Roach and Jim were prepared to be a three-person crew. Though both hard workers—and arguably the most competent of their larger crew—they each had their areas of specific technique. Asking them to step in and fulfill the roles of a full crew had been ambitious. While he had no doubts they would succeed, he had expected a trial period.

This has not been the case.

Roach balances his work in the kitchen with work on deck like he was born to do it. Even with their meager supplies, Izzy notes that they have yet to go hungry for even a meal, Roach somehow crafting full meals from what Izzy would be unable to turn into anything more than a pile of ingredients. He’s strict about meal times, holding the three-member-crew to a strict schedule to ensure there’s no excess fatigue. When Jim complains about it, Roach fixes them with a look and hands them a fork, saying nothing. 

It works.

Jim, on the other hand, could man the vessel alone. They barely tolerate Izzy’s own assistance, keeping a careful and critical eye on him as he moves around the deck. He has a feeling they’re going behind him and changing details to fit their own liking, but Izzy really can’t be bothered to care. He has enough on his mind to worry about changing things on a ship that’s already sailing smoothly. He has to come up with a plan.

Jim’s at the helm when Roach corners Izzy in their cabin.

“You are a storm cloud over this vessel,” the taller man accuses, shoving a finger into Izzy’s chest. “You need to relax.”

“Relax?” Izzy asks incredulously. “I am trying to make a plan so that everyone makes it out alive!” Roach rolls his eyes. “Oh, please, excuse my concern for your fuckin’ life.”

“You will get us all killed if you are too tired to fight,” Roach tells him. “You will get yourself killed first. And then where will we be?”

Izzy turns away. “At a fuckin’ funeral, I guess, whatever. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Roach makes a noise in his throat, something between a scoff and a laugh. “I am not worried about you, I am worried that you are going to give all of us health issues from all your stress rubbing off on us.” Arms find their way around Izzy’s chest, pulling him back against Roach’s chest. Despite himself, the muscles in Izzy’s back loosen. “You need to breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“No, you need to pay attention to your breaths. Breathe with a purpose, little man. I cannot babysit.”

Izzy squeezes his eyes shut. Roach flattens a palm against Izzy’s chest, pressing down in a pattern mimicking the rise and fall of working lungs, and Izzy inhales slowly through his nose. He focuses on the feeling of filling his lungs completely, the rise and fall of Roach’s chest at his back matching his own. Roach’s thumb sweeps back and forth, and he rests his cheek on the side of Izzy’s head. Damn it all, it does calm Izzy down.

Even after his heart rate slows and he feels less crazed, Roach holds him there, breathing with him. Izzy lets himself sink back against him, his head falling back against Roach’s shoulder. Roach’s lips brush over Izzy’s temple and he can’t find the bite in himself to respond with something vicious. He lets Roach hold him, wonders if maybe the taller man needs it too.

After what feels like an eternity, Izzy exhales slowly. “If Jim finds us like this, we’re never going to live it down.” His voice feels raspier than usual, tearing its way out of his throat unfamiliarly. “They’ll hold it over us forever.”

Roach hums, the vibrations echoing their way through Izzy’s entire body. “Let them. They cried when Oluwande kissed their forehead before we left. No one here is crying.”

“Yet,” Izzy grumbles, but he knows there’s no bite to his tone. It makes Roach laugh anyway, the ghost of a kiss brushing over Izzy’s temple.

“Even tough captains need love, little man.”

Though his stomach swoops and something clenches in his chest, Izzy doesn’t have a response for that. He inhales shakily again, forcing the air back out. Roach’s thumb keeps moving, back and forth, back and forth, carving a short path into the muscle of Izzy’s chest. Surely there will be a bruise in its wake from the sheer intensity of the touch—if gentle touches could break the skin, Izzy would have a scar visible from the moon.

Eventually, Roach loosens his arms, physically turning Izzy to face him. He searches Izzy’s face for a long few moments, brushing his hair off of his forehead. Finally, the corners of his mouth curve up into a signature Roach grin. He cups Izzy’s chin and squeezes.

“I have to finish dinner. Twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes,” Izzy repeats with a short nod. “I’ll tell Jim.”

***

They eat meals on the deck.

Roach initially protested, arguing that meals were meant to be eaten at a table for digestive purposes and that to eat them while standing or sitting on the deck was an affront to his abilities as a chef. He had protested that it didn’t make sense, that he wasn’t cooking for them all to eat as fast as they could and not appreciate his food. Jim had accused him of living for too long under Bonnet’s thumb, that he had become soft and forgotten what it meant to be a pirate. Izzy had sighed, and pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, had said simply: if we eat on the deck, no one has to eat alone.

Neither crewmember had argued.

Jim leans against the helm, plate in their lap. Roach and Izzy eat sit up against the rail on opposite sides of the ship’s deck. It’s their usual configuration, only occasionally varying depending on whose turn it is to steer. They eat comfortably in an amicable silence, Livy perched happily on Izzy’s knee. 

“Do not feed the bird,” Jim tells Izzy, eyeing the gull warily.

“I wasn’t going to feed her, she eats normal bird shit,” Izzy retorts with an eye roll. “She’s self-sufficient.”

“And Izzy knows I would gut him like a fish if he wasted my cooking,” Roach adds conversationally. He doesn’t look up from his plate. Izzy flicks his gaze over to meet Jim’s, their mouth half-open and fork in the air on the way back to the plate. They raise an eyebrow and Izzy shrugs. He’s fairly certain Roach is exaggerating. Not that he plans to find out any time soon.

Around them, the evening is stifling. The air is thick and heavy, clouds hanging low in the sky. Izzy knows there’s a storm coming for them swiftly—he also knows they couldn’t outrun it if they tried. One of the best parts of a small crew? Being able to discuss decisions with ease. The three crewmembers had decided to simply face the storm at her worst and hope for the best.

Something heavy sits low in Izzy’s gut as he watches the clouds. Briefly, he longs for Ed’s presence and uncanny ability to tell how serious a storm will be and how they should approach it to heighten survival. As experienced as Izzy is, he has never mastered that trait. He’s never really needed to. He thinks they'll be fine. Though small, their vessel is sturdy and compact, and difficult to flip. She’s a powerful thing, strong and tough. He has every faith that they’ll see the morning. Izzy leans his head against the side of the ship, looking at his crew. They’ll be fine. He’s sure of it.

“Who is manning the deck tonight?” Roach asks, gaze focused somewhere off behind Izzy’s head. Izzy blinks.

“What?”

“The deck,” Roach repeats, his gaze falling to Izzy’s face. “Who will be watching it, in the storm? To keep us in the right direction.”

Izzy looks between Roach and Jim. He hadn’t thought that through, which of his crew he would assign the forsaken task of manning the ship in a storm. “All of us.”

It’s the thing that makes the most sense. None of them know how bad the storm will be and none of them should face it alone, not where there isn’t anyone to replace them if they get hurt, or worse, fall overboard. If all three of them are present, they can prevent anyone from going overboard. They can prevent the ship from going unmanned. 

Jim furrows their brow. “All of us?”

Roach snorts softly. “You are getting soft. You care too deeply for us. Not pirate material.”

Izzy glares at him. “I’ve been a pirate longer than you.”

Roach grins. “Perhaps I am a better pirate. Stronger, certainly. Better with a blade. And in the kitchen. And—”

“Shut up,” Jim growls. “We can’t all steer the ship, viejo.”

“We can keep each other company,” Izzy says, nodding resolutely to himself. “And make sure no one gets too tired or hurt.”

“You are soft,” Jim says, scoffing, though Izzy can hear no real bite in their tone.

“We are all we have,” Roach says softly, eyes fixed on Izzy. “We are…indispensable.”

Izzy nods again, slowly. “We all survive the night or none of us survive this trip. That’s all we need to know.”

Jim’s gaze flickers between the two men before they huff a breath, accompanied by an eye roll Izzy would be able to make out even in a storm. “Whatever. Assholes.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, followed by eruption into laughter. Roach laughs first and Izzy can’t help but to follow. Even with the storm all around them, bearing down on all sides, he finds himself grateful to have the crew that he does. He finds himself willing to admit that if he’s going to have to die doing something stupid, it may as well be on a revenge mission with two of the most capable pirates he knows. He finds himself pleased with his choice of crew. Jim, finally, reluctantly, is overwhelmed by the laughter and joins in, the three pirates all sitting on their boat, awaiting what may well be their destruction, laughing like it’s their last night on earth.

Truthfully, in the aftermath, Izzy has no regrets. Even as rain begins to pelt them in their faces, as they scramble to ensure that everything is tied down, as the first roll of thunder vibrates through them—he has no regrets. 

Things go well, everything considered.

Izzy braces himself against the rail, resting his hand on Roach’s lower back as the other man heaves over the side. Wind whips everything that Roach expels into the side of the boat, and the driving rain rinses it clean only moments later, a wave splashing up and onto the deck. Jim mans the wheel with admirable strength, though their face contorts each time the wind quiets enough that they can hear Roach’s ailment. At the far end of the deck, Livy takes cover beneath a crate, the small box sliding from one rail to the other.

Nothing goes overboard: no member of the crew, no extra portion of rations, no extra sail. The storm eventually quiets to a downpour. The wind settles, leaving only driving, piercing rain. Even between the remaining storm clouds, the moon peeks through, the deck glistening in her light. Izzy surveys his companions—Roach looks pale, but no less determined than usual. Jim just looks vaguely affronted at the inconvenience of the storm. No one is worse for wear, and Izzy’s breath comes more easily.

He approaches Jim first. “I’ll finish the night. Go get some rest.”

It’s a testament to the stress of the evening that Jim hardly spares him a second glance, only nods before disappearing below deck. Izzy turns to face Roach, who fixes him with a glare.

“I am not going to bed like this,” he growls, leaning against the railing. “If I lay down, I will continue to be ill.”

“I think sleep would help,” Izzy sighs. “You’re exhausted.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not right now,” Izzy replies, screwing up his face. Roach laughs, but the sound is tired. Izzy abandons the helm for a moment, approaching the chef and raking his fingers through the other man’s soaked curls. “Are you sure?”

Roach nods. “I cannot lay down like this.”

Resigned, Izzy grips his jaw, tilting Roach’s face up and searching his gaze. “Will you lay down when you’re tired?” Roach glares, but nods again, and Izzy relinquishes his grip. “Fine. But Jim and I will handle breakfast.”

“But—”

“Shut up.”

Roach falls silent, and the night goes on.

***

Jim and Roach don’t know that Izzy can hear them. Izzy didn’t know that Izzy could hear them until he heard his own name and promptly dropped the sail he was mending, ears suddenly straining.

“...not up to him,” Jim says. “It’s your fucking fight, Roach.” Izzy’s stomach drops.

“It is,” Roach agrees with a soft hum. There’s a pause and Izzy holds his breath. He wonders if Roach is glancing around, trying to gauge where Izzy is. “I think…I think it is kind of him.”

A snort. “I’m not dying for kindness, pendejo.”

Roach laughs softly. “No. The deaths will not be ours. I would fear us. I believe that Captain Low will not know what has hit him.”

“You have a lot of faith.” There’s another pause following Jim’s statement. Izzy shuts his eyes.

“I have faith in few things—things I was raised to have faith in. I also have faith in Izzy Hands,” Roach says, his voice soft. “We will succeed because he has no other choice. We will succeed.”

***

The ship comes into view only days into the voyage.

“Pull back,” Izzy orders, shoulders tense. “We don’t want him to know we’re here.” Jim snorts.

“I’d imagine he knows, viejo. It’s his fucking job.”

“He will not worry about a vessel our size,” Roach says, and both of his crewmates jump. Izzy whips to face him. Roach’s face is blank. “He will not see us as a threat.”

“Well, he fucking should,” Izzy replies.

Roach inclines his head, slowly, his gaze fixed on the ship in the distance. “He will. But only when it is too late.” Pushing forward, he passes Jim and Izzy, disappearing below deck again. Izzy exhales, looking at the ship again.

Jim clears their throat. “Are you sure—like, really fucking sure—about this?”

“Just fucking sail, Jim.” Izzy follows Roach, finding him in the kitchen. The taller man is cutting vegetables, but his eyes aren’t focused on the table. Everything about his movements are jerky, as if his mind is elsewhere. On a different ship, perhaps, a few kilometers north of them. Izzy catches his wrist, Roach’s gaze flicking up to meet his own. “You need to relax.”

“Do not tell me what to do,” Roach says softly, something sharp in his voice. “You have not met him yet.”

“You’re right,” Izzy agrees. He slides the knife from Roach’s grasp, turning the man to face him and bracing his hands on the edge of the table, caging Roach in. “I’m not scared of him.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“I’m not,” Izzy repeats. “He doesn’t scare me. I’m Blackbeard’s fucking right hand man—he should be scared of me.”

Roach looks at Izzy for a long time, his jaw working, before his shoulders slump. “If he kills you—”

Izzy doesn’t let him finish. “He won’t.”

“If he kills Jim—”

“He won’t.” Izzy reaches up, grasping Roach’s chin and shaking him slightly, leaning further into him. “First of all, Jim is untouchable. If any of us are going to make it out of here, it’s them. But no one is getting killed.” Roach raises an eyebrow and Izzy rolls his eyes. “Except Captain Low.”

“I just—”

“Shut up,” Izzy growls, leaning forward and stretching up. Roach doesn’t lean back, just keeps looking at Izzy, and Izzy lets his mouth brush Roach’s as he speaks. “We’re going to be fine. And we’re going to win.”

Roach’s fingers trail over Izzy’s jaw as he stays there, their mouths pressed against one another. The taller man exhales slowly, his breath ghosting over Izzy’s face, and Izzy finally relaxes his hold on Roach’s chin. His hand returns to its place at Roach’s side, letting Izzy lean into him until he finally breaks the kiss, pulling away.

Roach watches him, dark lashes blinking slowly. He presses his lips together, brushing a loose strand of Izzy’s hair back and out of his face. “You really think we will win?”

Izzy sucks in a breath. “I promise we’ll win.”

A tight smile, and Roach strokes a thumb over the lines Izzy knows are prominent in his furrowed brow. Roach presses, smoothing the skin out. “If you insist, little man.”

As if the wind abandons his sails, Izzy drops his forehead to Roach’s shoulder with a strangled noise, Roach’s arms coming to settle at his waist. For a few, brief moments, Izzy is overwhelmed. He knows how much is at stake. He knows what he loses if this fails. He isn’t willing to give any of it up. Roach presses his cheek against the top of Izzy’s head.

They’ve got a battle to win.

***

The ship docks less than a day later.

Izzy stands at the bow of their vessel as Jim guides them carefully into a nearby port—just far enough that they won’t attract the suspicion of their subjects. Roach stands somewhere behind Izzy. Izzy is aware of his presence, that he’s standing watch, but he is unwilling to turn and face him, unsure of what he may find there. There are parts of Roach that Izzy has not been made privy to—pieces of Roach that are not Izzy’s to own.

He swallows, leaning forward, bracing himself on the rail. Livy lands next to his hand, pecking at his knuckle. He swats at her.

“Fuck off,” he murmurs. She pecks him again. “Little shit.”

“Be nice to the bird.” Roach’s voice is a balm to Izzy’s nerves. “She could take you.”

Despite himself, Izzy snorts. He scratches the bird on the head. “Fuck you,” he says, and he isn’t sure which he’s directing the insult toward.

Their boat comes to a stop and the three crew members begin a flurry of movement to ensure that she stays tied down and secure. There’s little conversation, only checking with one another that tasks are thoroughly done and that they haven’t missed anything that could endanger the wellbeing of their boat. Izzy is careful with each knot he makes, eyeing Jim as they fold away the sails. Roach disappears below deck to finish up in the belly of their vessel. Jim catches Izzy’s eye and raises a brow.

Truthfully, Izzy doesn’t know how the next few days might go. He doesn’t have much of a plan, other than kill the captain. They’ll have to strategize once they get to the inn for the night. Izzy knows they need a plan. He knows they need to plot out their exact route—how they’ll avoid Captain Low’s crew, how they’ll get him alone. Whether or not they’ll even be able to.

How much blood can be shed.

Above everything else, Izzy has to figure out how to keep his own crew safe. How to get them all home in one piece. He knows they can win. He just isn’t sure at what cost.

Roach reappears on deck with each of their bags. Bonnet had insisted on changes of clothes for each one—something to do with the fuckery and ensuring they had clothing to wear afterwards. Izzy casts a final, critical look around the deck before deciding they can leave. In companionable silence, they each lift their bags over their shoulders. Livy settles atop Roach’s head, drawing quiet snorts from both Izzy and Jim, and then they’re disembarking. 

“I didn’t know you were a having-pets kind of man,” Jim teases Roach as they leave their boat behind them. 

“I respect animals,” Roach replies firmly. “They provide meat. If we get desperate…” He trails off with a shrug, and there’s an indignant squawk from his passenger. “You are meat inside that little body,” he scolds her. “I cannot change the fact.”

Jim exchanges a look with Izzy, the corners of their mouth quirked up. Izzy stifles his own laugh. The trio—or quartet, perhaps—continues into town in silence. There are worries that plague at the back of Izzy’s mind, but he forces himself to put them aside. He forces himself to take in the port instead, memorizing the path they take and the possible routes of escape, in case they find themselves chased through in a few days’ time. 

In case they have to make an escape.

The inn they come to is on the smaller side—only ten rooms in the entire building. Izzy pays for two. Jim snorts, rolling their eyes, and Roach steps on their feet as he passes them, fitting the key into the door to his and Izzy’s room.

“Dinner in a few hours,” Izzy tells Jim as Roach disappears. “We’ll set a plan after.”

“No time to waste,” Jim says, nodding. “Sounds good to me, viejo.”

Izzy presses his lips together in a thin line. “Just for that, you get the bird.”

He shuts the door behind him before Jim can protest, and there’s a sharp thud on the wood in retaliation. Izzy pauses, waiting to hear the slam of the door across the hall. Roach raises his eyebrows at him from the bed, shirt and pants gone.

“Feeling a little slutty today, are we?” Izzy crosses his arms and Roach grins.

“Feeling like I am tired of wearing the same clothes and it is hot in this room,” Roach replies, a hint of sharp snark laced through his words. “Join me.”

“We only have a few hours until—”

“Join. Me.” Roach lays back, stretching an arm out and curling his body just slightly, leaving room for Izzy to fit alongside him. “A few hours. We rest, now.”

Izzy grumbles to himself but finds that he doesn’t have much wherewithal to argue about this. He strips, leaving only his black underclothes on, taking the time to fold his clothes and set them on top of his bag. He crawls onto the bed, situating himself next to Roach and allowing the taller man to tangle their legs. Facing Roach, Izzy thumbs softly over the tattoos on his chest, pressing the pad of his thumb into the head of Roach’s swallow. Roach brings one hand up, covering the entirety of Izzy’s own swallow.

For a few moments, both men say nothing, allowing the silence to settle around them. There’s distant chatter from the patrons in the inn’s accompanying tavern and some conversation floating in from the street, but the room itself feels silent. They lie close enough to one another that they share breaths, something almost too-intimate. Izzy keeps his gaze fixed on Roach’s chest, on the ink there, until he lets his eyes slip closed.

Roach’s lips brush his forehead. “I will not let you sleep through dinner. Rest.”

Izzy goes to reply, but his voice gets caught in his throat, producing only a strangled noise. He exhales slowly and allows the tension to leak from his body, sinking further into the slightly too-stiff mattress. Roach tugs him closer, and like this, Izzy dozes off.

***

They have dinner together in the tavern attached to the inn. True to his word, Roach doesn’t let Izzy sleep through dinner, and the three crew members begin to sort out their plan.

“Well, it can’t be Roach, they fucking know him,” Jim hisses at Izzy. Roach rolls his eyes, ripping a roll in half. “It has to be one of us.”

“Then let me go! I’ll sneak in, whatever,” Izzy growls.

“Right, because you’re so fucking stealthy.”

“I’m fucking—”

“Let Jim go,” Roach interrupts, voice low. Both of his table mates whirl toward him, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the barkeep. “They are sneakier than you, little man. You and I come after.”

Jim fixes Izzy with a smirk and the back of Izzy’s neck grows hot. “This is fucked,” Izzy snarls, leaning back in his seat. “I should be the one going in—this was my idea!”

Roach’s gaze slides to Izzy, his face carefully blank. “Because it is your idea, you should get us all killed?” His voice is low, emotionless. There’s the flicker of something in his eyes that Izzy can’t quite pin down. “Jim is quiet. You are strong. Smart with a sword, yes, but Stede Bonnet once bested you. Jim first. We follow.”

Jim snorts. “Forgot you let Stede get the best of you, cabrón.”

“Fuck. Off.” Izzy keeps his gaze pinned on Roach. “What’s the rest of your plan then, Roach? Personally, I’d like to win.”

“If Jim goes first, and I follow them, we take out his crew.” Roach holds Izzy’s gaze. “You want the captain? Then you do not go first.”

Izzy holds his gaze. Between them, for the first time the entire trip, Jim is silent. Waiting. Izzy’s brain moves faster than his mouth can—he knows on some level that Roach is right and that it’s the only thing that makes sense, but how can he step back and allow his crew to go before him? How can he sit back and wait, knowing that he isn’t there to fight for them, to block blows before they land, to watch their backs? How can he let them go first, to take the brunt of the fight? To absorb the force?

But Roach holds Izzy’s gaze and Jim stays quiet, and Izzy knows this is a fight he will not win. He swallows. “Fine,” he says. “So what’s the plan?”

It’s as if Roach and Jim share a mind, the ease in which they hash out the plan of attack, ironing out details like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “—and then the rest is you. Obviously, by that point, we’ll be there to have your back—”

“And guard the door.”

“—and guard the door,” Jim continues. “All things according to plan.

“You will have the time to finish him off,” Roach finishes. “And take your time doing so.”

“If we don’t make it through,” Jim says, voice hard. “Then you’ll have to head back and find the Revenge, and you’ll have to go fast.”

“If we don’t make it through, I’m not going back to the Revenge.” Izzy looks between his crewmates—his friends— and flexes his jaw. “Either we finish what we started, or we don’t.”

“Izzy, if we don’t make it through—”

He cuts Jim off. “We all make it out or none of us do. There is no other ending.”

Chapter Text

They wait until the sun is just before setting to head toward Low’s ship. It sits low in the sky, blues turned to pinks and golds and shadows beginning to lengthen. Izzy inhales slowly, eyes fixed on his two crewmates ahead of him, both pretending not to know the other. Izzy respects the impassivity of both of his friends, the way their gazes slide over one another with no spark of recognition.

He worries all the same.

From a safe distance, he follows them to Low’s ship, docked in the harbor right amidst the others. A few hours prior, he had watched as the majority of Low’s crew debarked and disappeared into town, into taverns and inns with clear intentions for the evening. Now, he watches as they both slip separately into the shadows of the vessel, disappearing from his sight.

And he waits.

Izzy’s skin itches, but he forces himself to stay in the shadows, leaning against the wall of the port as the night fishers and final merchants come in, strolling loudly past him. No one looks at him twice. He keeps his gaze pinned on the ship, though there’s no movement. No sound. So Izzy waits.

After a while, Izzy is the only one left on the dock. The night around him remains silent and unmoving, and he crosses his arms against the sudden chill. Something’s gone wrong, it must have. There’s no other explanation for the utter silence. Izzy really hadn’t thought about what his plan of action would be to stage a rescue—get himself killed, most likely. Gutted, tossed overboard, never heard from again. Which, truthfully, is probably the proper punishment for getting his friends killed.

Just as he squares his shoulders and prepares to follow them in, there’s a loud crashing noise, and a man Izzy recognizes from Low’s crew appears at a dead sprint. Izzy’s stomach drops, until Roach appears behind him, a wild grin on his face. The man runs toward Izzy, his shirt nearly soaked through with blood, clinging to every inch of his skin—or, what’s left of it. Even as he approaches, Izzy realizes he can see the bone where muscle and skin have been cut away, a familiar precision to each cut. This man will die with his face frozen in a mask of fear. 

Izzy notes the moment the man sees him and decides to plead for help—only his mouth opens and all that comes out is a guttural, hollow wail. His tongue is gone.

Looking past him, Izzy finds Roach’s gaze. Whatever it is he sees there turns his own blood to ice and he swallows. There’s blood smeared across Roach’s cheekbone, slick and dark, and a bit at the corner of his mouth. Roach winks at him. He passes Izzy with grace, clearly less concerned with his prey than Izzy thinks he should be.

“Your turn, little man,” Roach practically purrs.

Livy follows him past, her own white feathers streaked with red. Taking a moment to watch the twisted parade turn down an alley, Izzy turns back to the ship, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword briefly before drawing the weapon. He has a battle to fight. To win.

He boards the ship.

Izzy had taken great care to ensure that very few members of the crew were on board before they began to execute their plan, but he still meets his first body in the middle of the main deck. This death, Izzy notices immediately, is quick. A single wound in the center of the man’s throat—Jim’s doing, he’s certain. He steps over the body. Beneath the corpse, a sea of blood spreads out over the wood, and Izzy idly wonders if it’s seeping through the boards.

The ship itself is silent, somewhat eerie. Silent ships have never sat well with Izzy, not really, but this is something entirely different. This is the same silence that comes before a tempest breaks.

He hears Jim before he sees them, but only barely. There's the soft thud of a body against a wall, a protest cut off before it could grow loud enough to be heard. Izzy rounds the corner as the body slumps to the ground, Jim removing their knife with practiced ease, turning quickly at Izzy’s approach. They relax after recognizing Izzy, lowering their knife.

“Captain’s quarters are behind me,” they tell him, voice low. Izzy nods.

“Figured as much,” he rasps. Behind Jim, there’s a carved doorway that challenges Stede’s. These goddamn fancy pirate captains. “Is he the last?”

Jim shoots a pointed look at the corpse at their feet. “Final crewmember right here. First mate.”

Izzy scoffs. “Not a very good one.”

With a low laugh, Jim turns away. “Be careful, viejo. Make sure you win.”

“I plan to.” Izzy shifts his grip on his sword, stepping past Jim. He pauses, half-glancing at his crewmember. “Will you go find him?”

“Sí.”

“Be safe.” Izzy turns back around, advancing once more. “Please.”

He barely hears Jim leave.

***

Izzy finds Captain Low in a familiar position: feet resting on his desk, pipe in his mouth. He’s a less impressive mural of Ed Teach—one far less deserving of any sort of respect. He doesn’t look up at Izzy when he enters.

“I was wondering how long it would take for you to make it in here.” The captain’s voice is rough, though not from disuse. Rough like his vocal cords had been damaged, or like someone had replaced his voice box with someone else’s and the captain wasn’t quite used to it. “Took long enough.”

“You don’t seem concerned about your dead men,” Izzy says. He keeps his voice flat, nearly deadpan. All at once, Izzy realizes he isn’t scared of this man. He’s the first mate of goddamn Blackbeard, who the fuck could hope to hold as much fear?

“Men are replaceable,” Low replies.

There’s a brief moment wherein this statement slides over Izzy like water, almost unnoticed. A brief moment wherein Izzy thinks nothing of it—nothing of the phrase that may have once even left his own captain’s lips. He nearly allows it to roll off of him like it had never been there in the first place, never existed in the air at all, something no one had to admit.

And then he thinks of Roach.

Roach, whose invaluable service to his crew not only kept them alive, but kept them on course. Whose cooking not only kept the crew alive, but kept them happy. Whose affection and loyalty to his crew had protected more than one of them more than once. And suddenly, Izzy’s blood is fire in his veins and he is livid.

He’s across the room in two strides, blade against Low’s throat, drawing blood simply from being pressed to the skin. Though there isn’t much of a reaction, there’s enough that something sick curls pleasantly in Izzy’s gut. He presses the blade tighter, maroon beads threatening to spill down the side of the blade.

“Some men aren’t,” he growls, jaw pressed to Low’s ear.

“Are you going to kill me?” If anything, Low sounds bored. Like Izzy and his rage is an inconvenience at most. “You’re taking your goddamn time.”

“I don’t think you’ve earned a quick one,” Izzy tells him. In a few quick movements, Izzy’s reversed their positions and his sword is through Low’s middle, impaling him and effectively pinning him to the chair.

Low smirks. “Changed your mind already?”

With a grin, Izzy steps back. He leans against the window, arms crossed over his chest, and takes Low in. “Not at all. See, that’s your left side.”

Low raises a brow. “And?”

Izzy keeps smiling. “Non-lethal, you fucking idiot. Keeps you there, but keeps you alive. You just can’t go anywhere.”

“I can pull it out.”

“Can you?”

There is nothing quite like the rush of joy that floods Izzy’s body as Low attempts to pull the blade from his torso to no avail. Call it a tribute to his captains. Low struggles for a few moments before he seems to accept his predicament and settles, fixing Izzy with a calculated expression. He pulls a mask of nonchalance over his features and Izzy wants to laugh, but he settles for the sneer already on his face.

He coughs delicately. “And, Captain? Can you pull it out?”

Low’s cheek twitches and Izzy feels the pull of satisfaction in his gut. “Think I’ll wait. For the time being. Why don’t you fill me in? What is it that you want, exactly?”

Izzy shifts, pouring himself a glass of brandy from the carafe on Low’s desk. He ponders his answer, what all to tell the man—what all is the truth. Leaning against the edge of the desk, he appraises the pinned captain, sipping his drink. It’s sweet for his tastes, but not bad. Something that might usually be expensive. “You,” he finally says, simply. “Looking at me like that, looking me in the eye while I kill you.”

“Seems dramatic,” Low snorts. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Izzy Hands. First mate to Blackbeard.”

“Ah. And what bone does the Dread Pirate Blackbeard have to pick with me? Far as I know, I don’t touch his toys.” Low’s gaze slides over Izzy. “Until now, I suppose.”

“I’m not here for Blackbeard,” Izzy says quietly. He says nothing else. Low raises his eyebrows.

“Well. That’s it then. What have I taken from you? Wife? Children? Estranged lover?” Low makes a mocking sound in his throat. “Can’t say they made much of an impression on me—or mentioned you. I’m not one for the romantics. Makes them soft.”

Izzy hums. He takes another sip of his brandy. “Does it?”

“Makes them fucking weak, doesn’t it?” Low snorts. He keeps his gaze on Izzy’s, a sharp glint in it, like he thinks he’s cottoned on to something. “Heard it even got the jump on ole Blackbeard. All taken up with a gentleman.” Izzy hums noncommittally. “Not the pirate he used to be, is he?”

“Not my place to say,” Izzy says. He keeps his voice low but firm, lifting one shoulder slightly. “My captain, not my lover. I don’t worry about what goes on in his bed.”

Low sneers. “Bullshit. Everyone out there knows about your fucked up little love story.”

Draining his glass, Izzy mirrors Low’s expression. “That so?”

The corners of Low’s lips curl up in a mean grin. “Loyal, devoted Izzy Hands. Master’s dog at play.”

“Blackbeard doesn’t allow pets on his ship,” Izzy says simply, and drops Low’s glass on the floor. The shatter echoes around the room, shards scattering across the floor. “And didn’t I tell you, I’m not here for Blackbeard.”

“Sure, but because of him. Defend his honor, perhaps?”

Izzy snorts. “You think he’d let me defend his honor? Thought you weren’t one for romantics?” Izzy tsks. “Sounds like you’re going soft, Low.”

Low flushes, even in the low light. “Why are you here, Hands?”

Twirling his knife in a Jim-influenced move, Izzy crosses to settle in front of Low again, dropping into a squat and looking at him once more. He searches the captain’s face, taking it in, and then carefully stabs his blade into the soft part at the top of the man’s knee. Low makes a strangled noise. “It’s a shame you think all men are replaceable, Captain,” Izzy sneers. “And more of one that you think romantics can only ever be weak.”

“Are you a romantic, Izzy Hands?”

“Nah.” Izzy removes the blade, drawing it up the length of Low’s thigh, through skin and muscle alike. He keeps his eyes on Low’s. “Might like to be, though.”

“Fuck is wrong with you?” Low pants, voice strained. Izzy wonders, vaguely, how much effort it’s taking the man to keep from screaming. “Just here for some fucking fun? When my men hear you—”

“They won’t,” Izzy says, cutting him off. He removes his knife, resting his forearms on his knees and sitting back on his haunches. “You think we didn’t take care of them first? You have too little faith in me.”

Color drains slightly from Low’s face, though Izzy can’t be sure whether it’s a side-effect of fear or pain. “I have more crew, you know.”

“I do,” Izzy acknowledges. “But they won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. We’ll be gone before then.”

“Are you going to take me somewhere?”

“Oh, no, not we as in you and I. We as in me and my crew.”

“You brought Blackbeard’s crew—?”

“No,” Izzy growls, leaning forward. With a quick motion, he sinks his blade into Low’s uninjured hip, angled just beneath the hip bone. Low makes a choked noise. “I said my crew, Captain. Pay attention.”

Izzy draws his blade back out. He pushes himself to a standing position and knots his fist in the hair at the back of Low’s head, tilting his face up toward Izzy and exposing his throat. Without saying anything, Izzy carves two shallow lines alongside the man’s adam's apple, parallel to the line of his throat. For the first time all evening, Izzy finds recognizable fear in the man’s gaze as he feels the hot rivulets of blood streak down his throat and over his chest. Careful to only tear skin and nothing vital, Izzy then cuts a smooth line down the center of the underside of Low’s jaw.

Moving to stand behind the man, Izzy braces his hands on his shoulders and leans down to speak in his ear again. “I think you’re an ungrateful man, Captain Low. I think you should’ve valued your crew when you had the chance—when you had good men beneath you.”

Low’s voice shakes now as he replies. “We’re fucking pirates, Hands, there are no good men.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Izzy says softly. “And what a shame. Here’s the thing, Captain, I think you should’ve paid a bit more attention. Listened to your crew, sometimes. Waste of having ears, otherwise. Clearly you don’t fucking need them.” With a swift motion, Izzy slices through one ear, severing it from Low’s head, then follows with the second. He rounds the man again, grinning at him. “In fact,” he continues, keeping his voice soft. “I think you’ve squandered all of your senses.”

“You’re a fucking—”

“I heard you were the cruelest captain out here.” Izzy continues on as if Low hadn’t spoken. “What’s wrong, Captain, can’t you take it?”

“This isn’t a fucking—”

Izzy sighs. “Did you know you had the most skilled cook to ever inhabit a pirate ship?” Low blinks, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. “My guess is fucking not.”

Low blinks again, spluttering. “This—all this, over a cook?”

Leaning down, baring his teeth, nose brushing Low’s, Izzy growls: “Not a cook, you fucking bitch, my cook.”

A hysterical laugh tears itself from Low’s throat. Smeared in his own blood, still sluggishly dripping, sides of his head flat and dark with blood where his ears used to be, the captain looks insane. “So you are a fucking romantic.”

Izzy, for all he’s worth, allows his face to split into a grin. He keeps himself still mere millimeters from Low’s face. “And did it make me soft, Captain?” And he grips Low’s nose, severing it from the rest of his face.

This time, a howl does wrench itself from Low’s chest, something guttural and wet. Izzy drops the severed extremity into the ever-growing pool of blood beneath Low’s chair. Taking in the man’s face again, Izzy realizes the captain is finally crying, tears mixing with the other fluids on his face.

“I didn’t have to ask to know that you never appreciated the smell of his cooking,” Izzy informs him. “Somehow, I just knew.” He grips Low’s chin. “His name is Roach, by the way. You claimed him from some crew you raided, after your own cook was killed.”

“Men are replaceable,” Low hisses, though it comes out wet. He spits, his own blood and saliva landing on Izzy’s cheek. Izzy wrinkles his nose. “Fucking cook’s a cook.”

“Not this one,” Izzy tells him. “I’ll take your eyes last. I want you to see me kill you.”

Pressing his knees into Low’s thighs, Izzy forces the fucker’s mouth open. Low fights as best he can, shoving weakly at Izzy’s biceps, but Izzy holds the upper hand with ease. Blood loss and position on his side, he overpowers Low and forces his jaw apart. With the way the man fights him, it’s a bit of a hack-job, but Izzy forces the blade through the thick muscle of his tongue. Low tosses his head, choking on his own blood, and Izzy sighs.

“Fine,” he says. “Swallow it, then.” He holds Low’s jaw shut, a hand firmly over his mouth, holding his gaze. Even as Low’s eyes continue spilling tears and his disfigured face resembles less of a face than it does a bruised squash, Izzy holds his gaze. “Taste of your own fucking medicine.”

It takes a few minutes—or maybe an eternity—but eventually, Low’s throat works and Izzy releases him, squeezing his mouth open again. It wasn’t a clean cut, and the base is still attached, but Izzy deems it thorough enough. He won’t speak again.

He climbs off of Low, crossing back to the desk, and filling the remaining glass with more brandy. He sits on the desk, watching Low. Blood makes the carafe slippery and stings the inside of Izzy’s nostrils, the air in the cabin becoming thick with the smell of it. He sips the brandy, watching Low closely. The man’s chest continues to rise and fall, though shallower than before. He’s more red than he is anything else, nearly thoroughly soaked in blood, just his eyes still visible in his face. 

“You get to really listen to me, now,” Izzy says softly. “See, I know what kind of captain you are. Heard it from someone first hand. Seen the remnants. What you left behind.” He pauses, taking another sip. “Always heard stories about you, but figured you weren’t cruel enough to leave your scars and let them live—always thought you fucking killed the poor bastards, not left them to figure their shit out on their own.”

Setting the glass down next to him, Izzy gets back off of the desk, tilting his head and looking at Low. “Turns out you’re just a fucking bastard, I guess.” He pauses, taking a moment to hold Low’s gaze, to watch the way the man seems to tremble as he looks at him. Most fearsome pirate in the seas, crueler even than Blackbeard himself, reduced to this. Izzy scoffs. “If I were a different man, I would take all that shit you did to them, and I’d do it back to you.” He leans forward, bracing himself on Low’s forearms, leaning close to what’s left of his face.

“The thing is, Captain, that there’s some shit you don’t take from people. And even I won’t stoop that low.”

“Izzy Hands.” Roach’s voice cuts through the room, quiet but firm. Izzy looks up, meeting his eyes where he stands in the doorway. “It is growing light outside.”

“Already?”

“It has been hours.” Roach enters the room, but doesn’t come any closer. His gaze flicks between the back of the chair and Izzy’s face, but remains impassive. “We must leave soon.”

“Yeah,” alright,” Izzy agrees. He looks back down at Low. “I wanted to kill you,” he says slowly. “But…if you always leave them to live with what you did.” He stops, looking back up at Roach, then down again. “I am not going to kill you, Captain, but no one is going to save you, either.”

Taking his knife again and bracing his hands on Low’s face, Izzy holds the man’s eye open as he sinks the blade into one eye socket and then the second, drawing garbled screaming from Low’s throat. He draws his blade back out, then eyes the hilt of his sword. If he removes it, Low could get up—not that he would get far, what with the blood and sensory loss, but it would be a risk. Cursing his lack of forethought, Izzy rests his palm softly on the hilt as a farewell, before he steps back. He lifts the glass of brandy, drowning the rest of it. Low continues emitting pathetic whimpers, mixed with garbled attempts at speech. Izzy sheathes his knife, crossing to Roach.

Roach looks him over. “You are going to stain your sheath.”

Lifting one shoulder, Izzy shrugs. “Worth it.”

Casting a glance over Izzy’s shoulder, Roach inhales slowly. “You are not going to kill him.” It isn’t a question. It isn’t an accusation, either. It’s something more than that, and something that Izzy isn’t entirely certain at first needs a reply. He searches Roach’s gaze, looking for any single thread of regret, and finds none.

“He did it to himself,” Izzy replies. “He squandered things that mattered. There are consequences.”

“You are a good man, Izzy Hands,” Roach says. His voice is soft. “I am glad to know you.”

“Low called me a romantic,” Izzy confesses. They haven’t moved from the doorway. Roach smiles, just slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He tangles his fingers in Izzy’s.

“I think he might be correct.”

***

Traipsing through the ship back out into the fresh air of the real world seems to be something surreal to Izzy, mostly appearing as a hazy fog as he looks back on it. He and Roach find Jim outside, Livy perched on their shoulder, knife spinning expertly in their hands.

“You achieve what you wanted, viejo?”

“I think so.” It’s the only response Izzy can give—it’s the only response that feels even remotely correct. Roach doesn’t let go of his hand as they walk, bloody though it is.

The town around them has yet to even begin to stir. Houses are dark, even as the sky above them grows light. Only the barest hints of sun turn the sky from black to some kind of milky blue and Izzy glances at the people on either side of him, taking in their bloodstained clothing. There’s a streak of dark red turning brown as it dries across Roach’s cheek and a splash of the same color across the sleeve of Jim’s coat. Between the three of them, Izzy is the only one who looks as if he’s bathed in bloodshed.

Roach continues to hold his hand.

Even the damn bird remains quiet as they return to their sloop, boarding her in near silence. There’s something heavy between them, yet Izzy feels lighter than he has in weeks. He feels only moments from floating away, being kept on the ground by the sheer weight of Roach’s hand in his. They don’t talk as they hoist the sail, nor as Jim assumes the wheel, nor as the vessel pulls away from the port. 

As the wind catches in their sail, Izzy faces the shore. It begins to sink into the distance faster than he expected, and his eyes catch on the hulking mass that is Low’s ship, towering over the masts around it. Hours from now, a hungover crew will stumble upon a bloodbath, their own captain’s mutilated form at the center, Izzy’s sword pinning him to his own chair. They will be forced to rebuild—or to take their opportunity to flee. They will worry that whoever attacked their captain will be back to finish the job. They will have no idea that there were only three assailants.

The sun rises, and Izzy stands at the rear of his boat, hand in hand with Roach, and together they watch this chapter come to a close as it fades into nothing but a mass of land. Izzy’s skin itches, the blood drying down, and he idly squeezes Roach’s hand.

“What next, little man?” Roach asks softly, his shoulder brushing Izzy’s own. “What great adventures await?”

Izzy glances down at himself, then at the blood spattered across Roach’s face, then down at their joined hands. “I think a bath,” he replies, and his voice is far raspier than usual. “And then, I think we go home.”

A smile curls Roach’s lips and crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he moves to stand in front of Izzy. He’s close enough that his breath ghosts over Izzy’s cheeks, and Izzy shudders lightly. “A bath sounds nice. Home sounds better.”

Izzy laughs. “One thing at a time.”

“Okay,” Roach says simply. He leans forward, pressing his mouth to Izzy’s. “One thing at a time,” he says softly against Izzy’s mouth.

Izzy lets himself be kissed and he lets himself kiss back, bringing his free hand up to tangle in Roach’s hair because damn it, they deserve it. “Bath,” he says, when he finally pulls back to breathe. Roach nods, a smile softening his features. Without looking away, Izzy calls out: “Jim!”

A squawk, and then a response: “Viejo.”

Livy lands on Izzy’s head, and he can’t bring himself to come up with any sort of comment about it. Still looking at Roach, one hand still in his hair, the other still interlocked with Roach’s own, Izzy grins. “Take us home.”