Chapter Text
“Where’s the baby?” Izzy demands when he finds most of the crew playing cards on a blanket on the beach.
Pete is off building a dribble sand structure around a napping Buttons, the more nocturnal crewman none the wiser in his slumber. Oluwande sits up from where he had his head resting in Jim’s lap, and Lucius’ face scrunches in curiosity.
“Not a clue.” Lucius says, although Roach perks up. His brow wrinkles in confusion, but he doesn’t ask whatever question is on his mind.
“Okay, that doesn’t fuckinh- look. You-“ Izzy points to Lucius “were with Fang.”
“If they’re still feeding the strays around, they could be anywhere.” Oluwande says, ever the voice of reason.
“Besides, you’re his actual father, I think Fang and Ivan would ask before taking him somewhere.” Roach supplies, meaningfully.
“Daddy Hands.” Lucius adds, which earns a cackle from Pete despite the distance. Jim hides their amusement in a cough, glancing up at Izzy for his own reaction.
He seethes, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. It’d been hard enough to navigate the loose sand with the prosthetic; he’s not fully used to using it on land yet. And certainly not on various terrain. Izzy growls in irritation, but tries that counting thing to stay calm.
It barely works, but he makes it back to stable ground despite his own grumbling and piss poor attitude. It takes him nearly an hour to find the group, sitting on steps that lead up to a second level trellis. Ed’s joined them, his sleeves rolled up, in the process of accepting what’s surely a stale roll. There’s a small, wispy cat sitting pretty in Michael’s lap, it’s orange little head ducking under his hands for pets.
The little boy’s hands seem impossibly gentle as he strokes the top of the cat’s head. Next to him, Fang demonstrates how petting with two fingers helps keep his touches light.
He’s been hoping they were done, his shoulders sagging when Fang spots him. He leans down to whisper to Michael, pointing over to Izzy and calling the boy’s attention to him.
Izzy, having come to a stand still, waves awkwardly. There’s a fondness in his chest, that bubbles up between his ribs and makes it hard to breathe. Michael waves back with a bursting excitement tampered only by his desire not to disrupt his kitten friend. And Ed, Ed straightens up and stretches out his bum leg.
“Shouldn’t be leaning on it.” Izzy remarks, and Ed huffs a laugh that sounds almost like he means it.
“Found your boy down there-“ Ed gestures down to the water with his head, where the dingys are docked. “Trying to catch seagulls with a lead. Lucky Ivan and I got him when we did; could have taken him away.”
“Straight to their nest.” Ivan says, pulling a face and tickling Micheal. It earns him a high, sharp giggle, his arms circling around to protect the kitten.
“I’m too heavy to be taken away.” The boy protests, but he doesn’t lean away from Ivan’s playing.
“Mmm, Dunno ‘bout that one. We get enough gulls and they’ll be able to pull you along after the boat. We get you a box to sit in, bet it’d be smooth sailing.” Ed grins, gesturing with his hands as he talks.
“Can I?” Michael asks, turning to Izzy.
“You’ll just drown.” Izzy says, lamely, and has to deal with the disappointment of both Michael and Fang at his rebuttal.
“Business, Iz?” Ed asks, head cocked to the side as he regards Izzy. They haven’t spoken about the leg, not since the last time when they talked about The Toe Incident. Oswald had been with them, then, a sort of gentle guiding hand.
“Just the baby, boss.”
“He’s your boy.” Ed says, a smile quirking his lip that tells Izzy he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Don’t need permission to take your own, right?”
“Right.”
“So you agree?”
“Edward.” Izzy says, his tone measured and even. Ed raises an eyebrow at him, considers the first mate before him.
It shouldn’t make him nervous, when Ed’s hand reaches out to touch the boy. It’s just on his shoulder, a tap that draws the boy’s attention away from the cat in his lap.
But it does, it sickens his stomach and replays the conversation from the other night. The reminder of a weight in his arms, someone so small who can barely defend himself. Who’s already seen God knows what, who’s chosen Izzy to try and make sure it doesn’t happen again.
But Michael doesn’t jump when Ed touches him. He doesn’t flinch, not the way he does sometimes when Izzy’s too loud. Looking down at the child, Ed quirks his head toward Izzy.
“Go on, help your old man out with whatever he needs.” He says.
Michael is remarkably gentle with the cat, setting it down with a kiss to the top of it’s head. When he tries to straighten up, it’s little claws catch on Michael’s trousers and it wails for his attention again.
“We’ll keep an eye on him, mate. You go on.” Ed encourages again, winking at him.
It’s only then that Michael launches himself at Izzy, hugging him tight around his waist and knocking the wind out of him. He rests a hand on the boy’s head, feeling more exposed in front of his shipmates than ever before. Maybe, he thinks, it rivals that one time Fang made him cry.
Israel Hands does not stammer. He doesn’t lose track of his words, or falter. But he also doesn’t know what the fuck to say. He’s opened his mouth to speak but nothing comes out, and if Ed’s expression is anything to go by he’s just making an ass out of himself. He clicks his teeth with how hard he shuts his mouth, a deep frown on his face.
“Are we doing something fun? Can we play in the water? Did you know what cats have like, a billion lives?”
“I think it’s only 9.” Izzy says, to Ed, Fang and Ivan’s amusement.
“I dunno, cause Ivan says that cats always land on their feets. They have such little feet!”
“How about we ask Frenchie, I hear he’s a big cat fan.”
—
The back tables of Spanish Jackie’s are quiet, at least during the day. It provides a safe place for Michael to do his reading, even if it also provides excellent opportunities for distractions. Each time Izzy’s come back from attending to some task he’s found the boy sitting anywhere but his designated table. Currently, that place is on top of the bar, examining the nose jar with a curiosity Izzy wishes he wasn’t exhibiting.
“Hey! No touching.” Izzy calls from the doorway, even as a few stragglers jump at his tone.
“I’m not touchin’ nothing!! I just wanna look at the noses and Miss Jackie said I could look.”
“Looking doesn’t involve hands.”
“Sometimes it does!! It does, like, like when you find someone on the ground and you gotta check if they still have their bees.”
“Their. Bees?”
“The bees! The bumbles that make your chest and heart go thump, thump-“
“Your, that’s a pulse, Michael.”
The boy eyes him skeptically.
“I’m pretty sure it’s bees.”
“Your father is literally a doctor, he can tell you that bees have nothing to do with your heart.”
“It DOES, because why ELSE would bees come out of a dead people?”
“When the fuck were you around a dead body gone enough to have flies around it?”
Michael shrugs.
He leaves Izzy’s (frankly valid) question unanswered.
He barely pauses in his mission of looking at the jar, sprawled across the bar to peek at the bottom. Izzy closes the lid, a bit firmer than strictly necessary. He snaps and points at the floor, the spot in front of him.
The boy scrambles down from the counter, but apparently doesn’t expect to be marched back to his table. He sulks, pouting as Izzy drags out his chair for him. He drops down into the chair, slumped down even as he picks up his work and looks at it.
Izzy takes the seat next to him, his head already in his hands. He’s exhausted. Finding two handles of rum that aren’t prohibitively expensive or already spoken for is seeming to be impossible. And he would rather eat his wooden leg than tell the Captains or crew about it to set up a merchant ship raid.
“I’m pretty sure people have bees.”
Michael’s whisper interrupts Izzy’s thoughts, the boy glancing over at him from the little maths workbook that Bonnet and Spriggs have made up for him.
Izzy groans, scraping his hand over his face in such a way he’s sure it doesn’t help the bags under his eyes. He aggressively taps one of the little math equations, fixing Michael with a look he hopes reads like he means business.
“I’m just sayin.” Michael mumbles, slunk down in his chair.
Someone, maybe one of Jackie’s husbands, sets a pint of something down in front of him. He takes a long, stead drink only to realize Michael’s been given nearly the same. He snags it before the boy can, dipping a finger in to make sure that it’s not alcohol, or nose juice.
Michael voices his displeasure with a squawk that would rival that bird of Buttons’, looking up from his work with offense. Izzy doesn’t care, and bats away the boy’s grabby hands.
It’s apple juice, as it turns out, watered down after the last time Michael drank nearly a quart of tamarind drink and ended up with a stomach ache. He hands it over to the boy, who is eager to avoid his schoolwork in any way possible.
Izzy tends to his own cup, even as Michael guzzles his juice like a child starved. The little boy’s breath is ragged when he comes back up for air, his face covered in juice. Apparently having been raised in a barn (or the English Navy, same thing), the boy uses the hem of his shirt to wipe his face.
“Hey, no, hey come on.” Izzy says, setting his cup down. “You’re going to have to wash that.”
“Nu-uh! It’s just liquid, it dries.”
“That’s how you’re gonna get bugs.” Izzy complains.
Michael groans, and goes back to counting on his fingers as he tries to solve the problem. He doesn’t bother to fix his shirt, just like he hasn’t bothered to fix his hair or anything else about his appearance. Izzy, for his part, tries very hard not to make eye contact with anyone around.
—
Bonnet finds them there hours later, Michael having since moved on to drawing on the backs of his worksheets. Izzy’s checked over his work as much as he possibly can, but even he’s willing to admit he doesn’t know the answers to some of the higher number multiplication problems.
Izzy’s finished two more pints, and he looks Bonnet over with barely a hint of displeasure. Michael looks up excitedly, waving enthusiastically at Bonnet just as he has every other patron of the bar.
“There you two are! Been looking for you two for ages. Might I steal your helper away?” He asks, a hand on the back of Michael’s chair as he speaks.
Izzy’s about to tell Bonnet he’s not taking the boy anywhere when Michael bobs his head, looking back to his artistic endeavors.
“Yeah, you guys can go play adult games and stuff. I gotta finish my drawing.”
Bonnet bows his head to Izzy, gesturing for him to take the lead. He’s hesitant to go, not because he’s worried about Michael but because going somewhere with Bonnet makes his skin crawl. But he’s helpless but to obey his Captain, his hands tense at his side as he stands.
“Where are we going to stay?” Izzy asks Michael.
“Uuuuuuhhhhhh, um, innnnside?”
“Correct. What are we not going to drink?”
“Um, adult drinks?”
“Correct. And we’re going to leave the nose jar-?”
Michael whines, kicks his feet that don’t reach the ground.
“Alone.” He finally says.
“Right.” Izzy says, fucking with his hair before he follows behind fucking Bonnet.
They spill into the street, both men still quiet until Bonnet stops walking in the middle of the fucking road, his gaze open and honest and some fucking emotion Izzy isn’t sure how to quantify. He shifts uncomfortably, the feeling of deeply positive and disgustingly Bonnet nonsense afoot.
“What?” He demands.
“I just thought, well, you’re new to fatherhood-“
Absolutely fucking not.
“Oh get fucked.” Izzy hisses. He stalks the opposite way Bonnet had been leading them, back down toward the docks.
Sadly, it doesn’t deter Bonnet in his apparent need to bond with Izzy over this. He follows behind eagerly, not finding anything odd about dodging any number of persons as he keeps up with Izzy.
“And it’s a rather daunting prospect, isn’t it? Suddenly having this little, person! That you have to care for no less!”
Izzy doesn’t exactly have a plan of escape. Maybe he hopes that Stede will give up, that he’ll go back to making moon eyes at Edward or bothering the crew or whatever else he does with his time. But he doesn’t, and soon Izzy finds himself begrudgingly sitting on a dock with Bonnet, trapped.
He could throw himself into the water, he supposes. But Stede is libel to just jump in after him, which isn’t his intended purpose. He’s no interest in getting shit from Edward, in having to dry his shirt out, and figure out swimming with the new leg. No, no Israel Hands is a coward and will sit right where he is.
“I’m not talking about this with you.” Izzy says, instead.
“Well that doesn’t stop me from talking now does it?” Bonnet replies, looking terribly pleased with himself.
Izzy groans.
“What, are you going to order me to be the boy’s father? He’s got Oswald, what’s he need me for?” Izzy demands, instantly going back on his word not to discuss this.
“Oh, I think you know the answer to that, Israel.” Bonnet says, but his eyes stay out on the inlet water in front of them.
“He shouldn’t even be on a fucking, pirate ship for fuck sakes.”
“He’s adapted quite well, I think. With your tutelage, guidance-“
“He could fuckin’ die.”
“We both know you wouldn’t let that happen. You nearly died for me of all people; you’re not letting harm come to hide nor hair of the boy.”
It snaps something in Izzy, that last thread of resistance to this conversation he’s been holding on to like a lifeline. As much as it pains him to admit, Stede is good with children. He’s seen how he engages Michael in play, nothing too outlandish for whatever game they concoct but enough to keep the boy’s attention.
Izzy doesn’t have any experience with that. Not as a child, or an adult. Play, acting out games and childish fantasies, simply doesn’t come naturally to him. He’s always been like this; the sour stick in the mud to Edward’s more whimsical approach.
He sighs.
“You don’t pick who your fucking parents are.” He grumbles.
“How fortunate for him, then, that he’s able to.” Stede says, a bit soft and wistful.
Izzy huffs, and keeps his eyes on the horizon. Under his nails, the rough wood of the dock provides a sharp enough edge to keep him in the present moment. Regardless, he still feels a bit out of his depth, here.
“I don’t think it’s a secret that our fathers weren’t the kindest.” Stede chooses his words, his tone, carefully. “Isn’t that what you’d like to give him? A father he doesn’t have to fear?”
They haven’t talked about their fathers. Maybe he and Edward have, late one night in their youth when too much drink plied their lips apart as the trauma flowed like wine between them. Fathers who were violent, who saw their wives and children as possessions. Who didn’t want their sons picking flowers, making friends, protecting their mothers. Fathers who required obedience above all else, who responded to tears with threats of more violence.
“Can’t give him that. He’d be fucking stupid not to be afraid of me.”
Stede hums in understanding, and his head bobs.
“Do you want him to be?”
“No.”
“Ah.” He pauses, fixes Izzy with a smile so kind he feels off kilter. “Don’t suppose our fathers lost much sleep about that, do you?”
Izzy’s father certainly didn’t, not before he drank himself to death. He doesn’t imagine Edward’s or Stede’s did either, men too focused on their own anger to see the world outside themselves. But isn’t that who Izzy is? A conglomerate of all the pain he’s been dealt with nowhere to put it?
“He needs someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone good at this shit.”
“He has that.” Stede says, earnestly.
“I’m good at my job, not at taking care of a baby.”
“You’ve given him a place to sleep.”
“He needed a bed.” Izzy scoffs
“Clothing.”
“I just had a spare shirt.”
“And don’t think Roach didn’t tell us about you asking to take half rations.”
“Look, he’s just, you see how tiny he is!”
“My point is, you’re already doing what a father should.”
Izzy frowns. He’s thought, distantly, that this has been about protecting Michael. Making sure the boy makes it long enough to find a good home, that he’s only doing this short term. He hasn’t admitted how much he sees himself in the boy, how much he sees Edward. And he won’t. Won’t give Bonnet the satisfaction of helping him see.
“None of those things are special! That’s just, basic shit. Anyone can give a kid basic needs, aren’t you the one always talking about thriving, not just surviving?” He says, instead.
Stede sighs, bobbing his head again. He focuses, looks out at the sunset, the warm oranges and pinks that gradient into cool purples. His eyes are not on Izzy, a simple kindness he hates that he appreciates.
“You do a good job of it. Helping him thrive.”
Izzy hates that he preens under the praise, too.