Chapter Text
It’s an accident, really it is. If Hands hadn’t been snapping at his heels, none of this would have happened. But now Hands is sprawled limp on the deck, a trickle of blood running from his temple, and Stede is looking down at him, stomach roiling with guilt.
They carry him down to the galley.
“I don’t think there’s much I can do,” says Roach.
Stede isn’t wringing his hands, exactly, but his heart sinks. “But he’ll be fine, right? It’s just a little blow to the head. He’s got a thick skull, he’ll be fine.”
“Sure,” says Roach sceptically. “He’s breathing.”
“Exactly! I’m sure he’ll wake up in no time, right as rain and twice as obnoxious.”
Ed ducks in and out of the galley, veering between blustering confidence in Izzy’s ability to recover from blows to the head, and ill-concealed panic. Stede stays where he is, watching Hands breathe shallow breaths, skin clammy and body uncannily still.
It’s Roach who notices the shift, Hands’ breathing deepening, hands twitching at his sides. “Might want to stand back for this, Captain.”
Hands snaps awake, and in a trice is on his feet, knife in his hand. Then he wavers, clutching his head with his free hand. “Fuck,” he says.
“Take it easy there, Izzy,” says Stede.
Hands looks up, and points the knife at him, which isn’t exactly surprising. Stede raises his hands placatingly.
“Who the fuck are you?” asks Hands.
“Ooh!” exclaims Roach. “Post-traumatic amnesia!”
Hands spins round to face Roach. “The fuck - where the fuck am I?”
“Do you know who you are?” Roach asks, looking fascinated.
“Do I - do you know who I am? I’m Izzy Fucking Hands, that’s who, and you better fucking tell me where I am or you’ll fucking regret it.”
“You’re on the Revenge,” says Stede. Izzy spins back to look at him, no recognition in his expression.
“This ain’t the Queen Anne,” he snaps.
“No, just the Revenge,” says Stede. “You’ve been on board several months, along with—“ Stede pauses. “Blackbeard, and some of your crew.”
Hands’ expression screws up in confusion. “Months? The fuck are you talking about, why would we be—”
“How’s he doing?” Ed’s fake nonchalance slips into obvious relief when he sees Izzy on his feet.
All of Hands’ tension drains away. “Edward! Thank fuck. What the fuck’s going on? Why aren’t we on the Queenie? She’s alright, isn’t she? Don’t tell me you left that pissant Jack in charge. Jesus - did you cut your beard? When did you do that?” Ed is gaping at him - Stede is no better.
And then, in what counts as one of the most horrifying moments of Stede’s life, Izzy Hands smiles, and winks at Ed. “It suits you.”