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Izzy stares at his beloved sword as he cleans it, stroking the metal with an oiled rag until the blade gleams like it did when it was brand new. In fact, he focuses so hard on cleaning his sword that Izzy doesn’t hear anyone approaching. So, when Jim clears their throat, he jumps in a fucking embarrassing way.
(He never used to jump when people approach him. Those three months of constant raids and getting his toes cut off because his captain was pissed off have clearly left a toll on him. But just like the others Izzy shared that ship with, as well as Mister Spriggs, Izzy has managed to relax a lot more since the crew parted ways with Edward. He misses him, but Izzy must admit that not being around the man who took his leg 24/7 is doing wonders for his mental state.)
“Hey there, abuelo,” Jim says, a teasing lilt to their voice that makes Izzy snort.
“And hello to you too, you little shit,” Izzy says without looking up from his sword.
“What’re you doing?”
“Cleaning my sword.”
“I can see that,” Jim says, and Izzy imagines them rolling their eyes. “I meant… why aren’t you in bed?”
And that’s a fair question. After they dropped the anchor for the night, the whole crew went to bed, including Izzy. But he couldn’t sleep, so he went back above deck and decided to clean his sword in the bright moonlight.
“I could say the same to you.”
Jim chuckles, sitting down beside him. “Fair point. I can’t sleep. You?”
“Same,” Izzy mutters.
For a few seconds, Jim stays quiet, just bouncing their leg as they sit beside Izzy. But their eyes soon focus on his sword (probably appreciating the craftsmanship, Izzy thinks, because other than him, Jimenez is the biggest fan of blades on this ship, although they prefer knives), and a frown appears on their face.
“I haven’t seen you use that in a while,” Jim says.
“Well, I was recovering from a fucking bullet wound,” Izzy says, but he knows that isn’t what Jim meant.
And sure enough… “Yeah, and you’ve been fully recovered for weeks now. I’ve seen you doing everything like normal around the ship. So why aren’t you coming on raids anymore?”
Izzy clenches his jaw. It’s true that he had a valid reason to stay out of raids for several weeks (being fucking shot in the stomach tends to mess you up), but as time went by, he began to find excuses to avoid going on raids. He would insist that his cabin needed cleaning, or he felt sick, or he needed to check the inventory of their items, but… they were just lies. Reasons to stay on the ship when the others went to rob rich fuckers.
“We all know you’ve been lying, Izzy,” Jim says, and Izzy suppresses a flinch, wondering how the fuck they can read his mind.
Or is Izzy just an open book?
“It’s not like you to avoid the action,” they say, obviously remembering how Izzy always went on raids when they were stuck on the ship with Edward in those dark, perilous months. “So, what’re the lies about?”
“I’m not fucking lying—”
“Sure, you’re not,” Jim says, taking out one of their knives, dragging the blade against a strip of leather. “Let me take a guess. You’ve got some stupid idea in your head that you’re weak or worthless or something like that. So, you’re staying behind on the raids so you don’t ‘slow us down’ or something like that.”
It’s official: Jimenez is a fucking mind reader.
Izzy sighs. Somehow, Jim hit the nail on the head. But he won’t admit that Jim read his mind like that. He won’t admit to having such pathetic thoughts swirling through his mind.
“Guess I was right,” they say, their tone a little cocky.
He doesn’t bother to argue back. After all, Jim already knows the truth.
“Well, abuelo, lemme tell you this. You aren’t a burden. You don’t slow us down. You’re the best sword fighter on this ship—and don’t you dare tell anyone I said that,” they hiss, but Jim smiles as they speak. (And Izzy rolls his eyes, because Jim is a lot like him in that whole ‘being reluctant to tell people how you really feel’ sort of way.) “And I know you’re thinking about your leg right now, and yeah, you’re a little unsteady sometimes and walking on sand is a bitch for you, but I’ve seen you training, man. You’re strong and you know exactly what you’re doing. You’re fucking invaluable on a raid, no matter how many legs you’ve got, and don’t ever think different.”
As Jim’s words sink in, Izzy swallows back the sudden lump in his throat. Brushing his emotions away with a chuckle, he glances at Jim and says, “Shut it, you twat,” but he smiles and his voice brims with the warmth he feels towards this crew, the people who helped him when he was dying of infection and kept him safe and supported him when he cried and clapped and cheered when Izzy wore makeup and sang in front of them.
Jim snorts. “Suit yourself, you old dick,” they say, but they pat his knee and smile at him. “Just think on what I said, okay? Buenas noches, Izzy.”
And Jim stands up, and wanders back below deck, leaving Izzy still sitting there, processing their words.
“Stupid arsehole,” he whispers fondly. His smile broadens as he thinks about what Jim said to him, blinking back the tears in his eyes.