Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a chilly night.  A fog has crept across the dark waters of the Caribbean, shrouding The Marianne in a cloak of ashen grey.  What little moonlight trickles through the mist gives the ship an ethereal quality.  There is no sound on deck apart from the creak of the rigging and the gentle lap of waves against the hull.  Izzy smiles.

Most men would find themselves perturbed when confronted with such an eerie night.  Some would spit and call the mists evil; would claim it a sign that devilry was afoot nearby.  But Izzy is not most men.  He doesn’t mind the cold – it’s a nice change from the oppressive heat of the daylight hours.  And he rather likes the silence, and the feeling of utter solitude that comes with it.

On a ship as big as Hornigold’s, a late watch is the closest anyone can come to being alone; not without being the captain or the first mate.

Izzy is neither of those things, but he has ambitions.  One day, he’ll have enough command to claim a space for himself.  One day, he won’t need the isolation of middle watch just to fucking get away from everyone else.  Although, he muses as he leans against the rail, he suspects that he might choose to take a shift now and then even when he doesn’t have to. 

Nights like these speak to the depths of Izzy’s soul.  It’s a simple pleasure to enjoy, but a pleasure all the same.  Izzy won’t give that up.

He’s not really alone right now, in any case.  Hornigold’s crew take watch shifts in teams of three:  One man for the helm, another for the bow, and the last up in the crow’s nest for good measure.  The separation is supposed to keep the men from getting distracted.  And it works, to Izzy’s eternal relief.  The arrangement may not provide true solitude, but it’s close enough to count. 

A yawn forces its way through Izzy’s grin.  He curses softly and shakes his head.  As much as he enjoys this watch, his current satisfaction is hampered somewhat by fatigue.  He’d taken middle watch last night as well, and had barely gotten to sleep before the bosun started hollering for the crew to muster for a raid.  It had been a good haul, one that took all day to sort and stow, but that does mean Izzy is fucking tired.

It probably didn’t help that he hadn’t gotten much sleep before the previous night's shift, either.  Damn Jack and his fucking late-night drinking games, and damn Edward for convincing him to participate.  Not that Izzy had much of a choice:  Once Ed had turned those pleading brown eyes on him, he had lost all chance of refusing.

Izzy shakes his head again.  Nothing for it, now.  He’ll just have to stay awake long enough to make it to change of watch.  If he falls asleep on duty, Hornigold will lash him to the mast for three days without food or water.  Izzy knows he would survive, but the last poor bastard to receive that punishment had crawled to his berth at the end of the third day under the jeering attention of the whole crew.

Pain, Izzy can handle.  Humiliation, less so. 

Izzy forces himself to step away from the rail.  He paces across the bow, still keeping a sharp eye on his surroundings.  Hornigold would be even less forgiving if he let an enemy approach unseen.  Izzy can only imagine the horrors the captain could contrive for a man stupid enough to do that.

As he paces, he starts humming quietly to himself.  Izzy has always been fond of music, since he was a boy.  He has a good voice and an ear for tone that he has used on many occasions, more so when he was younger and spent time around civilized people.  There isn’t much use for the musically inclined aboard a pirate ship, beyond the occasional shanty.  This is especially true aboard The Marianne. 

Hornigold has no use for “frivolous” talents.  It is fortunate that Izzy is skilled in other ways as well.

Unbidden, the words to and old song come softly to his lips,

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hill and valley, dale and field,

And all the craggy mountains yield.

There we will sit upon the rocks,

And see the shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

“Heya Iz,” a quiet voice comes from above him. 

Izzy jolts, drawing his sword halfway as his head snaps upwards.  There’s a man clinging to the rigging a few feet above his head.  His wild black curls ruffle slightly in the wind, his patchy stubble flattens against his chin as he presses his face between the ropes.  A smirk curves across his lips as he gives Izzy a jaunty wave.

“What are you singing?”  Edward asks, as if he didn’t just give Izzy a fucking heart attack.

“What the fuck are you doing, Eddie?”  Izzy hisses, sheathing his sword.  “You’re supposed to be on watch in the fucking nest.  Get back to your fucking post, before Hornigold locks us both in the brig for a week.  Again.”

“Bah.  I’m not scared of old Hornie,” Ed says, an edge to his smile and a manic brightness in his eyes.  He’s blustering and they both know it.  Edward is terrified of Hornigold – they all are.  It’s only sane, when you’re dealing with a vicious madman who thinks all weakness can be cured with the right brand of violence.  Izzy does him the courtesy of not commenting on the lie.  “’Sides, who’s gonna tell him?  You?”

“The bosun’s mate – “

“Lashed the wheel in place and fell asleep two hours ago.  It’s just you and me, mate.”

Izzy glances towards the helm.  Through the fog he can just make out the bosun’s mate, swaying slightly with his face tucked against the wheel.  “What the fuck?  That piece of shit – “

“Oh, come on, Iz.  Leave ‘im be,” Ed wiggles to settle more comfortably against the rigging, “You never answered me before.  What were you singing?”

“Fuck off.  I’m not singing it anymore, am I?”

Edward pouts.  “Izzy, Izzy.  It was just a question, no need to get so tense.  You never sing for me anymore, mate; you know I love it when you sing.”

Izzy knows.  He remembers the hollow-eyed young man Ed had been when he’d first come to this ship.  He remembers how brightly he smiled the first time he caught Izzy muttering the words to Greensleeves as he worked.  Even at that early stage, it hadn’t taken much for Ed to convince him to actually sing the damn thing.  He’d spent weeks trying to get Izzy to do it again.

Ed’s changed a lot since that first day.  He’s become sharper, leaner, more confident.  He found his voice and his quick wit and never shut the fuck up again.  There’s a reason he’s out here with Izzy in the dead of night, while the rest of the ship sleeps.  A reason why he so often ends up in the brig, or tied to a cannon, or geting friendly with the cat o’nine. 

Ed doesn’t know when to stop pushing, and it’s made him simultaneously Hornigold’s greatest prodigy and his biggest disappointment.

Izzy still sees the ghost of that haunted boy from time to time.  It’s usually after another one of Hornigold’s little lessons, the ones all his favored lads look forward to and dread in equal measure.  Their captain is molding them into legendary pirates, but the cost is steep.  Sometimes, when Ed thinks no one is looking, he drops his mask and lets the hurt shine through. 

But Izzy sees; Izzy knows.  At times, he thinks he knows Edward better than he knows himself.  The first time it happened, Izzy sang for him again and watched life return to his eyes.  Little comforts can mean the world out here; Izzy knows this, too.  That’s why he was willing to sing, again and again, whenever Edward called.

It’s been a while since he’s done that, however.

“You know I hate singing for an audience,” Izzy mutters.

“I’m not an audience!  I’m just me.”

“Oh, aye?  And Jack, and Vane, and sometimes Bellamy or Read – “

“Well, they’re not here, now!”  Edward grumbles.  He cocks his head at Izzy, “Is that why you stopped?  ‘Cause we started spending more time with them?”

“Something like that,” Izzy sighs. 

In truth, it was Jack that made him stop.  The younger man was already a drunken mess when he swanned his way onto the Marianne.  He's just as talkative as Ed, without any of his wit or charm.  Whenever he has a thought, if you can even call them that, it goes straight from his brain to his mouth.  Izzy can’t fucking stand him, but he and Eddie get on like a house on fire.

Jack had walked in on Izzy practicing I Pass all my Hours a few months after he arrived.  He’d taken one look at Izzy’s pale face and laughed, making a comment that he’d never heard such sweet music on a pirate ship, and must have taken a wrong turn at his last bordello.  There was a keen gleam in his eye as he said it, one that made Izzy shut down immediately.  He knew well what Jack could do with a secret like that.  He could never be caught doing that again if he wanted to preserve his reputation on this ship.

Jack Rackham was one of Hornigold’s favorite lads for a reason.  Izzy did well to remember that from then on.

“I tell you what, mate,” Edward hums, “I’ll go back to the crow’s nest if – if – you keep singing.  You’ll just have to sing a little louder so I can hear you.  Otherwise, I’ll be right back down here.  Okay, Iz?”

Izzy groans.  “Fine,” he grits out.  Sometimes he wonders if there’s anything Edward could ask that he would refuse.  “Just . . . get back to your fucking post, Eddie.”

“Aye, aye, captain Hands,” Edward salutes, before swinging himself up the ropes and out of sight.

Izzy snorts, rolling his eyes.  He clears his throat nervously, glancing back to the drowsing helmsman.  Still asleep; still alone.  Okay.  He takes a deep breath and resumes the song,

There I will make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A palm chestnut shell bounces off the top of Izzy’s head.  He pauses, looking up to the crow’s nest, annoyed.  Edward waves down at him and makes a broad gesture with both hands, which Izzy interprets to mean:  Louder.  Izzy flips him off and gets a thumbs up in reply.

Fine.  Louder it is.  Another breath,

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me and be my love.

Suddenly, a rough hand grabs Izzy’s shoulder and slams him against the mast.  His remaining breath leaves him in a gust, and he finds himself staring into the eyes of Benjamin Hornigold.

“C-captain!” Izzy wheezes.

“What the fuck is all this caterwauling?”  Hornigold growls.  He reeks of rum, though his eyes are just as clear and cruel as ever.  “Waking your captain from his sleep.  You going fucking soft, Hands?”

“No, sir.  I – “

Hornigold wraps a steady hand around Izzy’s throat and pushes him back against the solid wood.  “It seems to me,” he says conversationally, “that you’ve been slacking in your duties, Hands.”

“No, captain.  I’m just taking my watch – “

Hornigold’s hand tightens.  “If you’re fucking singing about fucking gowns and wool, you’re not taking your watch, are you?”

“No, sir.”  It’s getting harder to breathe.  Izzy keeps his arms limply at his sides.

“On this ship, we take pirating seriously.  We don’t sit around and sing songs like some little lordling all safe in his fucking manor.  But perhaps I’ve been remiss in my instruction.  Have I been remiss in my instruction, Hands?”

“No, sir.”  The hand tightens more.  Black dots dance at the edges of Izzy’s vision.

“Good.  That’s good.  Because if I ever hear you singing again, like some namby pamby lovestruck ponce, I’ll strip you bare and hang you from the prow for the fucking gulls.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, captain,” Izzy whispers.

Hornigold gives one final push and then releases him.  Izzy collapses to the deck, coughing and gasping for breath. 

“You got something to fucking add, Eddie?”  Hornigold yells. 

Izzy looks up.  Edward is frozen halfway down the rigging from the crow’s nest.  His mouth is set in a grim line, his eyes flitting between Izzy and the captain.  He stays silent.

“That’s what I fucking thought,” Hornigold growls.  “You’re on half rations for a week, the both of you.  Now, get back to work before I make you spend that week in the brig.  I’m going the fuck back to sleep.”

Hornigold marches back to his cabin without giving Izzy another look.  He passes the bosun’s mate, who smirks at Izzy when he catches his eye.  It feels like Izzy can’t breathe all over again.

By tomorrow morning, everyone will know how soft Israel Hands truly is.  He’s ruined.

Izzy stumbles to his feet and totters back to the rail.  His throat is on fire, and every breath burns worse than the last.  He feels like he’s going to cry; he hasn’t cried since he was nine years old.  He can’t – no, he won’t.  This isn’t the end.  He’ll fix this if it’s the last thing he does.

A cautious hand drops onto his shoulder.  “Are you alright, Izzy?”  Edward murmurs.

Izzy shrugs him away violently.  “Fuck off,” he rasps, “don’t fucking touch me.”

Edward backs off, hovering at Izzy’s side.  Izzy ignores him until he sighs and retreats back to his post.  He raises a shaking hand to massage his neck.

“Never again,” he croaks to the night around him.  “Never again.”

Chapter Text

The capstan is warm as Izzy settles himself against it.  It’s a beautiful day; most of the days have been beautiful since they reclaimed the Revenge, a streak Izzy attributes to whatever strange protective magic this crew and their bizarre captain have woven around themselves.  The sky is clear for miles, and there’s enough of a tailwind that the ship is moving along at a brisk pace.  Izzy smiles. 

He’s been doing that a lot, lately.  It’s . . . nice.

Most of the crew are out on deck, enjoying the weather.  There’s real work to be done, but they’re all too excited to focus on menial tasks.  Once upon a time, Izzy would have spent his afternoon fuming and trying to harass them into action.  But now he can’t work up the anger to fuel such aggressive action, nor does he want to. 

Tonight is a celebration, after all.  Who is Izzy to deny them a little fun before the party starts? 

Learning how to let his idiot crewmates slack off occasionally is one of Izzy’s greatest accomplishments of late.  He still makes them do work when it’s important, but he’s started to draw a distinction between what needs to be done immediately and the tasks he used to assign out of spite.  It’s much less stressful this way, for all of them.  Besides, he sometimes, maybe, enjoys spending time in their company as they relax.  Maybe. 

Izzy knows he’s changing, but it’s hard to shake forty plus years of repression over the course of just a few weeks.  The crew seem to understand his reluctance to socialize, though.  They know he’s trying to be better, for them.  Just like they had overcome their own differences for him.

Fucking new unicorn.  Pah.  Of all the sentimental bullshit they could have come up with. 

Izzy still has the note, tucked into his breast pocket.  He reads it sometimes when he’s alone.  Just four words, but they were enough to turn his world on its head.  It’s been a long time since a person has cared about Izzy Hands; now there are nine of them.  He still has trouble believing it.

The gift had been touching, as well.  The leg is practical, and sturdy, if painted more garishly than Izzy would have chosen for himself.  If the little shits had asked his opinion, he would have screamed at them to paint it black if they were going to paint it at all.  But he’s glad they didn’t.  Privately, Izzy can admit he likes the gold.  He likes the value it implies, as well as the dash of character it adds to his otherwise drab ensemble. 

It’s the first gift Izzy has received in decades.  He’s allowed to be a little fucking emotional about it, he thinks.

There’s a faint crash as Oluwande trips up the stairs from the hold, scattering paper lanterns across the deck.  Archie, walking behind him, immediately starts cackling.  She steps over the fallen man to set her own colorful load down by his head before helping him to his feet. Olu grins back sheepishly and shoves Archie away when she mimes falling herself.  They dissolve into laughter as they collect the lanterns and continue walking. 

Jim shouts to them in Spanish from where they’re loitering on the stairs to the quarterdeck.  They’ve been hovering there with Frenchie and Wee John for almost an hour now.  The two men are gleefully crouched over a mixed pile of fabric, bright blues and greens intermingled with brown and grey.  They chatter excitedly to each other, twin needles flying in tandem.

Izzy has no idea what they’re making, but Jim jumps in occasionally to offer suggestions.  Which . . . doesn’t help him figure anything out, if he's honest.  He might not want to know.

Stede and Roach are on the quarterdeck, arguing loudly about canapés.  Edward stands between them, ostensibly to moderate the increasingly heated discussion.  But Ed’s not paying attention; he’s leaning against the railing between the other men, staring dreamily at the sky.  Izzy lets his eyes float over the other man without truly focusing on him. 

At least the bastard finally seems happier, now.  He tries not to dwell on how he feels about that development. 

Izzy sighs and forces himself to look away.  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a chunk of wood, followed by his whittling knife.  The piece is half-carved already:  It’s a cat, ears perked forward and tail curving gracefully around its paws.  Izzy’s planning to give it to Frenchie once he’s done.  The man will either be delighted or treat the totem with the utmost suspicion; either way, Izzy imagines he’ll be entertained.

He swipes his blade over the back, peeling away the rough edges.  He has a long way to go if it’s going to be as detailed as he imagines.  Izzy brushes away the shavings and sets himself to work.

“Is that going to be part of your performance tonight?”  A voice calls.

Izzy doesn’t look up from his carving.  “Who says I’m performing?” he snorts.

Familiar footsteps approach and stop a few paces in front of him.  Lucius places a hand on his hip and cocks his head.

“Oh, come now,” he drawls, “Everyone has to participate in the show; captain’s orders.  Though, I imagine watching you whittle in silence for hours would be a bit of a downer, really.  Not exactly exciting, is it?”

Izzy would have started bristling immediately at his words, once, but he’s gotten better at recognizing the playfulness behind his tone.  It’s teasing, but there’s no malice behind it.  He knows the words are not meant to hurt, only to draw him out. 

It helps that Izzy spends every waking hour surrounded by passive-aggressive assholes these days, Lucius and Stede chief among them.  Sarcasm is their native language, the cheeky fuckers.  Izzy finds it amusing, now that he’s actually started getting to know them.

“Believe it or not, Mr. Spriggs, I do have other talents.”

“Oh, really?”  Lucius chuckles, “What, are you going to demonstrate proper dismemberment techniques?  Go through your warmup routine again?  We all live on this ship, you know.  We see you do that, like, every day.”

Izzy hums, eying the cat critically.  The tail could use some more definition, but he needs to be careful not to cut away too much from the back paws.  He places the tip of his knife along the appropriate groove and applies careful pressure.

“No, not those talents, either.”  The wood indents slightly as Izzy draws the blade down the line.  Perfect.  “I was thinking that I might sing something.”

Lucius guffaws.  “You?  Singing?  God, I can only imagine what that would be like.  It would probably sound like two ships scraping against each other, or that time Button’s demonstrated what the tonal differences mean in gull calls.”

Izzy smirks.  He sets his whittling down on the capstan and stands up.  He takes a few steps forward, eyes locked with Lucius.  The younger man frowns at him, wary but not fearful.  Izzy leans in close to his ear.

“Alas my love you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously,” Izzy sings quietly.  His voice is deeper than the last time he’d heard it, a little rougher at the edges.  But the tune comes to his lips easily, as melodious as it ever was.  “And I have loved you oh so long, Delighting in your company.”

“Fuck off,” Lucius breathes.  Izzy pulls back to relish the gob smacked expression on the boy’s face.  “You can sing?  What the fuck!”

Izzy pats his cheek, only slightly condescending.  “We all have hidden depths, twatty.  Even me,” he informs the other man casually.   

“But – that’s – why did you stop?”  Lucius whines.  “Fuck me, I never thought I would find your voice pretty.”

Izzy laughs.  “Not the first time I’ve been told that, believe it or not.  But I think I’ll save the rest of the performance for tonight.  You’ll just have to wait and see with the rest of this lot,” he says, starting to turn away.

As he moves, his gaze finds its way back to the quarterdeck.  Edward is facing him now, slouched against the railing with his chin resting on his palm.  His face has melted into a warm, fond expression that Izzy hasn’t seen directed towards himself in at least twenty years.  Their eyes lock and Izzy freezes.  Edward smiles.

Izzy has no idea how he could possibly have heard him sing from all the way up there.  But Ed had always been good at homing in on Izzy’s soft spots; he doesn’t see why that would change now.

 A slight frisson of old fear runs down Izzy’s spine; he forces it away.  They’re not on Hornigold’s ship anymore; this is the Revenge.  Being soft or gentle is not viewed as a weakness here, he reminds himself.  It’s okay for other people to know he can sing.  Ed already does.    

Besides, of all the hurts that lie between them, this is not one that he can lay at Edward’s feet.

Izzy tears his gaze away and limps back to the capstan, Lucius sputtering behind him.  He will be performing tonight, something he could never have dreamed of before.  He still isn’t fond of the idea of an audience, it’s true.  But this crew don’t count as an audience; it’s just them.  He could croak his way through the most vulgar shanty from any bar in Nassau and they would just pat him on the back and compliment his taste.  And they would mean it.

He’s going to sing because it used to make him happy, and he’s trying to do things for himself again.  He’s going to sing because he knows the crew will be shocked, and he can’t wait to see who is the most surprised.  And if Izzy can make Edward smile like that at the same time, well, that’s just a bonus.

Izzy picks up his whittling, humming to himself.  He expects he’ll have to do a lot of singing after tonight, knowing the fools he surrounds himself with.  It will be different, but that's okay. Change is hard, but Izzy can take it. 

Being a part of this crew, this fucked up little floating family, makes everything worth it.