Chapter Text
If Hell existed, Izzy Hands thought: it probably isn’t much different from this.
He had a lot of reasons to think about Hell lately. The summery heat of the Caribbean had long since crossed the threshold from uncomfortable to unbearable. The seas were calm in a stagnant, miserable sort of way - in the kind of way that meant that they weren’t even enjoying a bit of seaspray to cool the deck. The sun boiled them like they were floating in a pot of stew, and the humidity snaked its way into every free space it could find. Not even the cabin was a refuge. Izzy’s body dripped with sweat. The food grew moldy. He felt like a damp rag being twisted up and squeezed.
Thinking was difficult. As usual, the crew opted to just not bother with it. The lazy gits were lying prone on the deck, migrating like stray cats under the shade of the mast. When they weren’t sleeping, they were moaning about the heat. Izzy snarled and snapped at them, but without Ed’s authority to back him up, there was fuckall he could do. Mostly, he avoided them.
(And it definitely was not because he wanted to join them in their langour - abso-fucking-lutely not.)
The sun was a vindictive bitch, an enemy to be bested. The heat grew all the more unbearable with each passing hour. Izzy - angry at the world, angry at the sea, angry at the crew - refused to give in. Being the ill-tempered creature that he was, he only worked harder to spite it. He worked until he felt like a crushed tomato, until all he could taste was his own sweat, until the leather of his vest was oily to the touch. The black dye melted like candle wax.
He worked right up until the point that he fell, flat-faced, onto the deck. He was dead unconscious. The sunburn he found on the side of his neck and ear when he woke up proved that the crew had… left him there, boiling. For hours.
(They were probably hoping he'd just up and die, right there on the deck. Izzy was both impressed at their initiative and already contemplating how to enact vengeance upon them.)
Izzy dragged himself to the edge of the ship and hurled up the last vestiges of water he had in him. The sun was a red glimmer on the horizon now, thank God, but the heat lingered in the stale, unmoving air. It seemed some divine joke that the ocean was so devoid of wind. There wasn’t so much as a breeze.
…but most of Izzy’s life was a divine joke these days. It would have felt stranger if there had been any kind of respite.
“Izzy? You alright, mate?”
Izzy didn’t think it was possible that he’d ever feel rage at the sound of his captain’s voice… but he did. He turned on him, and thought: if Ed throws me overboard for insubordination, at least I won’t be fucking hot.
“Do I look bloody alright?!” he cried. “Do I--”
Izzy felt the nausea clamp down on his stomach again. Some small sliver of pride demanded that he not throw up on his captain’s boots, and he scrambled back to the edge of the ship to expel his guts into the ocean. His mouth tasted like acid and rotten clams, and the taste only made the nausea worse - and so it continued, until he was completely emptied out.
“Oh my - is he alright?”
Bonnet. Izzy wished that he had something left to spit up on his boots. Right now, though, he was so dizzy that he wasn’t sure he could have taken aim if he’d tried. He retched and coughed and gagged, burning all the hotter from embarrassment.
When he felt a hand on his back, he just knew who it was. He tried to elbow Bonnet away, but he was limp and weak. His arms felt like seaweed. Bonnet didn’t seem to notice the attempt, and instead he kept his hand pressed firm and steady between Izzy’s shoulder blades.
“Why did no one tell me Mr. Hands was sick?” demanded Bonnet, in another one of his pitiful bids for authority. “Anyone? Speak up!”
“Well, we figured he could use the sleep,” said Oluwande, so earnest that even the Devil himself could have believed him. “I mean, he’s been working all day.”
“Working? On a Sunday?” cried Bonnet.
“Is it Sunday?” said Ed.
“Right - help me get him into the library. Jim, Oluwande? Take his feet, and I’ll--”
“Don’t you dare!” snarled Izzy. “If you fucking touch me I’ll gut--”
He didn’t think anyone was listening to him. He felt a hand clasp on his shoulder, and another on his wrist. Suddenly, he was hoisted up onto Ed’s shoulders. He was grateful, at least, that he wasn’t going to be carried by the crew like a dead pig… but he wasn’t happy that Ed had deigned to carry him either. The fearsome Blackbeard shouldn’t have been worrying himself over a sick crewmember, much less bearing them as a burden.
But Izzy was defeated, so it didn’t much matter what he thought. He might as well have been a stuck pig for all the resistance he could muster against this indignity. The world was spinning and he felt so thirsty that he might well have contemplated drinking seawater.
Ed navigated back to Bonnet’s ridiculous library. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he still managed to be angry about it.
“I don’t need to fucking rest!” protested Izzy.
To his great displeasure (but not to his surprise), Ed just chuckled. And Izzy, humiliated and embittered and extremely, painfully sick, did not bother to fight when he was shrugged off onto Bonnet’s (and Ed’s) mattress.
He could smell flowers. Flowers. It was like he was in a fucking garden.
“This is a joke,” he grumbled.
“Sure is, mate,” said Ed, swooping down beside him with the benevolence of Jesus fucking Christ. “I’m sure you didn’t just work yourself sick instead of taking the day off.”
Izzy wanted to hit him. He wanted to bite and stab and claw. The implication that this was somehow his fault, that he wouldn’t know better, stung him like a hot poker. But even as he indulged his misery and nursed his outrage, he knew that Ed was right.
That didn’t make any part of the situation less horrendous.
“Get some rest,” said Ed.
Izzy heard busy footsteps, and he felt his humiliation grow. He knew Bonnet was there, no doubt looking at him with a mixture of pity and disdain. Bonnet was probably thinking that he would have to wash the sheets, now that Izzy’s stink was all over them. What a goddamn twat.
“I brought some fresh water,” said Bonnet. “I’ll leave the pitcher on the armoire, shall I?”
The armoire. Izzy felt even more nauseated.
He didn’t manage to drink any water, though - not a drop. Burned, miserable, and exhausted, he could only lay there in impotent agony. Not asleep, not awake, but somewhere in-between.
If he found out later that he was dead and this was Hell, he wasn’t going to be surprised.
All through the evening, Izzy heard the same thing.
Step-step-step-step. Slosh. Clank. Step. Step step… stepstepstep. Slosh. Thump.
Someone was in the room. Actually, a lot of people seemed to be going in and out of the room. Izzy was disoriented enough to think that maybe it was just a hallucination or a fever dream. Was there a difference? He was dragged from his stupor again and again, coasting on a sea of nausea and fever. It was so intense that he felt like his stomach was going to climb up his throat in a desperate bid to escape his body.
Thump. Slosh. Step step step step.
“Will you shut the fuck up!” shouted Izzy.
He wasn’t actually sure he’d shouted - or even spoken - at all. He felt like he had. He heard himself. But… the thumping and sloshing didn’t stop. The noise kept up for what felt like the whole fucking week before finally, finally everything went silent. He could have cried with relief.
He had what felt like a blink of rest before he heard cheerful humming. Bonnet’s humming.
Izzy groaned and buried his face against a sweaty pillow. The humming, at least, wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t sleep, once he got used to it. And he did sleep, dreamless and numb. It felt like it lasted somewhere between a second and a month. He wasn’t sure. He was roused when he felt a hand touching his shoulder, and a soothing and familiar voice in his ear.
“Come on,” said Ed. “Time to sit up.”
That was easier said than done. Izzy opened his gummy eyes to the crisp, golden dawn. Even in his sickly haze, he could make out the offensive cheer and pleasantness of the fresh, sunny morning. To complete the picture, Stede was sitting by the window, uncapping little glass bottles and daintily sniffing each one. He gathered them into two groups of indeterminate purpose.
Izzy was staring at him for so long that he completely missed the damn tub in the middle of the room, filled to the brim with pink bubbles. Through the haze of his own sick, he could smell lavender and fruit.
What in the everliving fuck was a clawfoot tub doing on a pirate ship?
Oh right, was his immediate thought. This isn’t a bloody pirate ship, is it?
“Hey.” Ed snapped his fingers by his ear. “Izzy? You in there?”
Izzy tried to tell Ed to fuck off, but his throat was so dry that he barely managed to rasp out the first syllable. And Ed, again, as bloody always, just chuckled. Against his will, Izzy was pushed up and held firm to Ed’s side. Ed put a cup of water to his lips, and Izzy couldn’t do anything but drink.
He was so dehydrated that it wasn’t even pleasant. The water dropped right down into his empty stomach, and his insides soaked it up like a dry sponge. It was a bizarre, unpleasant, sickly sort of sensation. He grimaced.
“Okay - now let’s get your clothes off.”
The worst part of the whole affair was that Izzy wasn’t in a state of mind to appreciate the experience of having Ed strip him down.
As much as he wanted to bitch and moan about it, he was drenched in sweat to an extent that even a pirate would find offensive. He was pretty sure there was vomit on him. When his bare skin was uncovered to the fresh air - far cooler than yesterday’s blight - he couldn’t help but feel relieved.
“Do you think rose absolut or geranium extract would be better?” asked Bonnet.
“Mnh. I don’t think Izzy cares about roses or geraniums, Stede.”
“Oh, well. Both, then?”
“Both.”
Izzy, stark naked and shivering, could only stand there helplessly. He was mostly concentrating on not dropping dead. He was also having trouble parsing the strange, numb unreality of being sick. He didn’t really know how to react. The situation was so deeply bizarre that he was still convinced that he might be dreaming or (more likely than not) dead.
Ed took advantage of Izzy’s moment of blank indifference to guide him towards the pristine little tub that had suddenly taken up residence in the library.
Before Izzy knew it, he was suddenly guided down into the bubbly embrace of perfumed water. He wasn’t even sure how he’d navigated himself into the gilded tub. He could barely keep himself on two feet. There was not an ounce of resistance left in him, and gravity dragged him down like a rock.
Completely emptied out of both anger or dignity, Izzy sat in the tub in blank indifference. His body no longer felt like it belonged to him - it was just a soft, mushy bag of meat that he was forced to occupy. His nausea was gone, yes, but the fever certainly wasn’t. His head felt like it was floating about two meters above his body, tethered like a flag at the end of a mast. His brain seemed to lag and stumble its way from one second to next, never quite grabbing hold of anything meaningful.
This is shit.
The bath, at least, was pleasantly warm - hot, in fact. It stung against his sunburn but felt good everywhere else. He tried to imagine how many pots of water had been put on the kettle for this brief luxury. How many logs had been burned to heat it up? How much coal had they used? The waste was so obscene that he almost couldn’t appreciate the warm embrace of blessed clean.
Almost.
Izzy sank down into the water, inch by sleepy inch. He was almost completely relaxed when he heard Bonnet walk over to the side of the tub, brandishing the two bottles of fragrant oil he’d apparently selected. Izzy stared up at them blankly. He trusted nothing this man could offer him.
“Oh don’t look at me like that - they’re not poison,” said Bonnet. “Here. I’ll show you! Give me your hand.”
Izzy wanted to punch him, or at least slap him. Unfortunately, this pitiful and paltry attempt at violence was misconstrued as acquiescence, and Bonnet snatched up his hand before he could say anything about it.
“Mnh-- fucking--”
Whatever unflattering thing he meant to say broke off into a grumbly little sigh. Bonnet was massaging the oil into his hand, and hell if it didn’t feel like about a hundred years of tension was stored entirely in the ligaments there. Izzy’s fingers spasmed and then curled like the legs of a dead spider. He felt like all the tension in his joints melt beneath the pressure. A night of nauseous misery made even the most mundane of pleasures feel peculiarly heightened, and he was so tired that he couldn’t pull together nearly enough outrage to resist it. He tried, though. He really, really did.
Izzy sank into the water, into the cocoon of bubbles and heat and sickly sweet roses. He felt his consciousness drift here and there, his thoughts tumbling like pebbles on the ocean floor.
There was no telling how long the bath lasted. The bubbles popped one by one until they were all gone, and the water was revealed to be a grimy, sooty gray. Izzy felt completely relaxed, and the relaxation made him feel even weaker than the sickness had. He was being pacified, and he hated it.
It went without saying that relaxing was not something that Izzy did. Ever.
Eventually, though, Ed helped him out of the bath and wrapped him in something soft and pleasant. Izzy was so tired that he didn’t even internalize that he was most certainly wearing one of Bonnet’s robes. He just fell down, face first, into the cool embrace of fresh sheets.
He felt like an idiot, a pathetic fool, but none of that mattered more than the plush mattress and warm blanket. Not right now, at least.
“You sure you can take care of this? I know Izzy can be a bit of an arse. …If you’re doing this for my sake, you know you don’t have to.”
“I’m not!” said Bonnet. “It’s not for you - really! He’s a part of my crew. If this was anyone else, well, I’d do just the same!”
There was a quiet chuckle. “Really?”
“Well… certainly!”
"Even Buttons?”
“...without a moment’s hesitation!”
You just hesitated, thought Izzy, an instant before Ed said it.
Bonnet gasped, outraged. “I did not! I am wounded that you would think that I show any preferential treatment to members of my crew!”
“So you’re telling me you aren’t just trying to win Izzy over.”
Izzy listened to the exchange with blank indifference. He sank down into the bed, enshrouded in silks and perfume, and thought: he’s got a fucking thing coming to him if he think he’s going to make me like him.
“Well. If he is won over…”
“Stede, you’re a hopeless romantic.”
“I am n-- oh. I thought you were going to say something else.”
If anyone’s a hopeless romantic, thought Izzy, it’s you, Ed.
Bonnet wanted to control him, just like he controlled Ed. Izzy wasn’t blind to that - not like Ed was, at least. And unlike Ed, Izzy wasn’t looking to be duped or domesticated.
“Just don’t expect too much from Izzy. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’m not. I just-- well. You were there for me when I was recovering.”
“And?”
“And it was nice. To be looked after, I mean.”
“Stede, I’m not sure Izzy can do nice.”
The conversation drifted outside. Either that, or Izzy fell asleep. It was a blessed relief. Later, he’d try to convince himself the whole conversation was just another silly fever dream. Izzy had to spare what little sanity he had left, however he could.
Izzy awoke to the sensation of scraping on his fingers.
At first, it was a dull and distant irritation - something alien and unwelcome. His hand tugged away from the soft scrape, scrape, scrape, but he was too weak to escape it. So he gave up and tried to go back to sleep. He didn’t manage it.
Eventually, when he had submitted himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to get his hand back, the scraping became kind of nice. He flexed his fingers and yawned, and the bed felt a little bit more comfy than it had when he’d just been dead asleep. He didn’t understand what was happening, but right now he’d be hard-pressed to recall his own name - much less where he was or why he was there.
“Now that’s better, isn’t it?” said Bonnet.
All at once, Izzy remembered. His eyes snapped open and he jerked his hand away from Bonnet’s, staring at the man in bleary, sleep-softened confusion. His other hand searched fruitlessly for a knife or a gun, but it only found blankets.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he said.
In his head, those words were delivered with a great deal more force and violence. In reality, he more or less mewled them.
“Cleaning your fingernails, of course,” said Bonnet. “Here - give me your other hand.”
Izzy held up his hand, and duly flipped the bird. This worked precisely not at all, because Bonnet just reached out and grabbed his finger, and began scrubbing his nail with the soft brush that he’d apparently used on the other hand. Izzy tried to flick Bonnet’s hand away, but the man proved persistent.
“Oh, don’t be obscene,” chided Bonnet. “Just hold still.”
Growing increasingly accustomed to indignity, Izzy let Bonnet continue. He felt like he was being conditioned to accept the absurdity, the frivolity. His soul was being chipped away, piece by piece, until only the bits that Bonnet found tolerable remained.
If there was one thing that Izzy resented knowing, it was how far he was willing to debase himself to stay close to Ed.
“Better,” said Bonnet. “See?”
Izzy looked resentfully down at his hands. They were indeed clean - cleaner than they had been in a long time. Maybe ever. The calluses and scars were still prominent enough, but they were softened with the treatment of oils and salves. They didn’t feel like his hands.
He clenched his right hand into a fist… and let it drop on the bed.
Oh, what’s the bloody point? If I hit him, he’ll just cry to Ed. And Ed will take his side.
"How’s your sunburn?” asked Bonnet. “Still painful?”
“How d’you think it is?”
It still hurt, of course. Izzy could feel the flaking, dry landscape of blistered flesh, but that was fine. Familiar, even. He had been sunburned plenty of times in his life, and often much worse than that. It came with the job.
“I was worried it would damage your tattoo,” said Bonnet. He sounded so convincingly sincere! “It does seem to be ah, peeling quite a bit.”
“The tattoo’s fine,” groused Izzy. “It’s not there to look pretty.”
“Of course not, no, no,” said Bonnet. “I just thought--”
“Don’t think. Just shut up.”
“Right,” said Bonnet, and Izzy was disappointed that he barely seemed offended.
It seemed like Izzy wasn’t the only one being conditioned. Bonnet barely reacted to his jibes, these days.
“I’m sure you want to sleep some more,” said Bonnet. “Would you like some water?”
Izzy wanted to say no, but that was a lie. Frankly, saying no might well kill him. He was bitterly thirsty, more desiccated than an Egyptian pharaoh. He was starving, too, but the stark memory of vomiting over the side of the ship was more than enough to put him off any kind of food for a little while longer.
He held out a hand, sighed dismally, and let Bonnet put a cup of water against his palm. He was aware of the small little powerplay - being forced to be reliant on Bonnet for even the most fundamental of needs!
The cup was so ornate that Izzy wanted to break it. Instead, he sipped at the water in sullen, depressed silence. It tasted good, which only served to put him into a more cynical mood. Of course everything Stede Bonnet touched turned to fucking gold.
Izzy dropped the empty cup listlessly aside.
“There. That’s not so bad, is it?” said Bonnet.
It was terrible, but Izzy wasn’t going to tell him that. Maybe, just maybe, if he didn’t say a single fucking word, Bonnet would leave him alone.
Izzy wasn’t holding his breath, though.
Heatstroke wasn’t something that Izzy hadn’t dealt with before, being a pirate. Water supplies had run low before, and his commitment to an all-black aesthetic often put him at more risk than his crewmates for overheating. He could deal with heatstroke.
But this… this was heatstroke coupled with months of bitter, unending, miserable stress. It seemed like years of sickness bubbled up all at once, brought on by the moment of weakness. When Izzy woke up feeling like he might be getting just a little bit better, his body was quick to ignite his fever again. When he stumbled his way back to his work, he was taken by nausea so bad that he nearly threw himself overboard right along with the vomit. He supposed he couldn’t be sick anymore if he was dead.
Izzy certainly felt like he was dying. Unfortunately, the universe wasn’t merciful enough to just get it over with. Every time he tried to crawl back to his duties, he just ended right back up in Bonnet’s bed, sweating his way through the long nights and being pampered through the hot, sticky days.
Bonnet didn’t let up, either. He brought Izzy medicine and food. He instructed the crew to drag in buckets upon buckets of freshly heated water just as the day’s heat gave way to the icy, windswept night.
(Izzy enjoyed the baths so much that he couldn’t even bring himself to point out what a giant fucking waste it all was - if Stede Bonnet was going to waste their fresh water for a hot bath, then Izzy fucking Hands was going to do exactly the same thing.)
Every day, Izzy slipped into the bubbled sanctuary of the tub and slept like a log, wrapped up in a heat so good that his muscles couldn’t help but unwind. When he clambered his way back into the bed, he slept splayed out like a starfish, drooling on the silk pillows. His dreams were restless nightmares of scorching deserts and pecking, hungry gulls - but it was a hell of a lot nicer to jolt awake while lying on a cloud of feather down, rather than the cold, moldy slab of canvas he was accustomed to.
After a few days of this routine, his condition was upgraded from diseased to merely sweaty. The heat wave persisted, and the library was indeed stuffy, but with the door open, it wasn’t so bad. The breeze funneled itself through the space and carried out the stench of sweat and sickness. Thankfully.
This all could have been a pleasant enough respite from his work, if not for Stede fucking Bonnet himself.
“Good morning!”
Izzy opened his eyes, a scowl already settling on his face. Bonnet strode into the library, holding an ornate golden tray. When he guided it onto the bed, Izzy was unsurprised to find a plate laden with ripe oranges and fresh, sweet-smelling bread (slathered in fresh butter, of course). There was also a cup of tea, fragrant and steaming.
Izzy wanted to harden himself to such luxuries, but his stomach growled so audibly that Bonnet smiled victoriously. The bastard acted as if that was some kind of acquiescence, rather than an involuntary spasm.
“Are we docked?” Izzy asked groggily.
“Just a quick hop and a skip to the mainland!” said Bonnet. “Unless you really think I’ve started growing my own oranges, mind. Eat, eat! You must be starving.”
Izzy didn’t move. He stared at Bonnet; red-eyed, hazy, and as weak as a newborn kitten. But he wasn’t about to go down without a fight. His dignity - what little he had left, anyway - wouldn’t allow for it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
Bonnet looked at him, doe-eyed innocence and a halo of innocent curls to match. He was so perfectly cherubic that Izzy had almost bought into it, once. But Izzy knew - he knew - that this was a contest. A duel. A challenge.
Bonnet wasn’t nearly as sweet as he appeared. Izzy refused to believe it.
“Whatever could you possibly mean?” said Bonnet.
“Don’t play dumb,” said Izzy. “You know just what I mean.”
His voice, which was usually thin on the best of days, was completely devoid of actual spite. Every word threatened to turn into a ticklish cough. He was barely containing it.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Bonnet.
Izzy bared his teeth. “You’re trying to-- to--”
He coughed violently against his arm, his back throbbing with the force of it.
“To what?” said Bonnet, his voice clipped, eyebrows raised. “To be compassionate, perhaps? Or, I suppose, to treat you like maybe you're part of my crew?”
“I am a part of yo--”
Izzy broke off into another dry and wrenching cough, which was both humiliating and probably for the best. To claim he was part of Bonnet’s crew felt like a trap, and he was not pleased to have stepped right into it. He certainly didn’t mean it.
This sickness is making you slow, he berated himself. Fucking idiot.
Unfortunately, Bonnet hadn’t missed the slip at all. His expression was one of indulgence, like a cat toying with a mouse. You belong to me and this ship, he seemed to say. You’re mine to do with as I like. And right now, I want to be really, really nice to you.
And you can’t say no.
“So… as part of my crew, you’re my responsibility. And it’s my duty to you to ensure that we maintain a positive working--”
“What are you on abo--”
“--relationship!”
Bonnet was a weak man, but there were certain things that he seemed to have an inordinate amount of confidence in. Team building exercises happened to be one of those things. And this was no doubt becoming just another one of Bonnet’s projects. Bonnet wanted to wrap Izzy up in this saccharine nonsense, to bottle him like he’d bottled his ship.
Izzy felt sick again. The food suddenly looked deeply unappetizing. It might as well have been poisoned.
“Are you really going to starve yourself out of stubbornness?” cried Bonnet.
“Stubbornness?” said Izzy. “You think this is stubbornness? Listen you-- you flowery little twat - I’m--”
This time, the bout of coughing was less fortuitous. By the time Izzy got himself under control, he had completely lost steam. He was wrung out. And Bonnet, damnable creature that he was, was looking at him with a perfect, paternal sort of concern.
When Izzy finally managed to stop coughing, Bonnet was already guiding a teacup to his lips. The indignities of this sickness weren’t apt to stop anytime soon, it seemed.
“It’ll help with the coughing,” he said.
Izzy, in no way eager to spill scalding water on himself, couldn’t do much more than go along with it. And when he was done with the tea (which was, of course, delicious), it was easy enough to eat a little bread and some of the orange.
Because really, what was the point in fighting it?
So Izzy waved a white flag and ate the meal, and drank the water, and wrapped himself up in clean and luxurious blankets. All the while, he reflected upon the fact that there was nothing quite so helpless as knowing that his own attempts at besting his enemy were more likely to injure himself than Stede fucking Bonnet.
This is shit.