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“Who gave these to you, Izzy?”
Fang’s big hands are gentle on his back. It’s a long time since anyone has touched him. There or anywhere.
Izzy grunts, shrugs under the touch.
“Long time ago, wasn’t it?” Fang’s hands are still moving: long sweeps down Izzy’s back, over the welts he knows are there but has hardly seen himself — no big looking glass in any cabin he’s ever lived in. He can feel the way Fang’s fingertips move over the raised skin — bump, bump. He swallows, mouth almost too dry to speak.
“Yeah. Long time ago.”
“The Navy, wasn’t it?” Fang’s voice is as soft as his touch. There were long years of his life when there was no softness for Izzy. For any of them. He never thought to offer softness to any man who served under Blackbeard. Never expected any for himself.
“Wasn’t easy, obeying twats.”
Fang laughs softly. “I bet.”
Silence stretches between them as Fang keeps up his massage. Distantly, he can hear the sounds of the ship at sea: the rush of water along the hull, the creak of the planks, the cries of gulls, the sound of voices. Jim and Archie are laughing. It’s so fucking good to hear that. It was so recent, the time when no one on board laughed. When it felt like no one would ever laugh again.
The terrible time when Fang first touched him gently. That touch almost broke him — and made him reckless, defiant. He cannot regret what he tried to do, the way he tried to pull Ed back from the precipice, stop him from falling into the abyss and dragging them all with him. Tried to protect the crew from his mania. Cannot regret that, even though the cost was so very high.
But maybe it wasn’t too high, really? For the price of a leg that was already half rotted in the wake of Ed’s secretive brutality, he has something he never thought he’d have. They care for him. All of them in their different ways.
Fang came and found him today, a small jar in his hand. “Thought your shoulders might need …?”
He’s been getting around okay on the leg they made him. The stump still hurts like fuck a lot of the time, but what’s a bit of pain? He’ll have to endure that the rest of his life, but at least he gets the chance.
He’d shrugged, shoulders twingeing. He's been exercising with the sword a lot. It's fucking hard on one leg, but he's still got the skill. He still feels powerful with a sword in his hand, even if he aches after.
“I know it’s not much,” Fang had said. “Might be nice though?”
Fang’s hands on his back don’t soothe his real pain, but he’s not wrong. It is nice, and nice isn’t something Izzy’s had a lot of in his life.
“Wasn’t only in the Navy,” he says now, mouth gone slack just as his body has gone limp under Fang’s hands — gentle on his skin, but with enough weight and force to unlock muscles he’s been holding rigid as he gets used to his new body.
Fang hums, not prying but open to listening, if Izzy wants to tell.
The topmost welts, overlaying all the others, were dealt out by a brute of a mate on the first ship he’d been accepted on after fleeing the King. Discipline had been different on that ship — far harder to understand, easier to fall foul of without knowing why. But instead of a disinterested surgeon’s mate looking him over and salving his wounds if he was lucky, there had been Ed, clumsy but caring. The last time Izzy’d been touched with gentle hands.
“You know what some ships are like,” he says.
“Yeah.” Fang’s voice hitches. Ed’s ships hadn’t been like that, not before, not really. There’d been thoughtless, witless violence, but not real cruelty. This ship would never be like that again, if Izzy had anything to say about it.
He voices the thought.
“Yeah,” Fang agrees, vehement. He sweeps his hands gently all the way down Izzy’s back now. “Is that better?” he asks.
“Yeah. Thanks, man.”
He expects Fang to leave, but he does not.
“And how’s your leg, Izzy?”
Izzy snorts. “Hurts like a motherfucker most of the time.” He hasn’t admitted this before, it felt ungrateful somehow, when there’s been so much good despite it. They look over at where the wooden leg, unstrapped by Fang when he made Izzy lie down, stands in the corner, ridiculous gold paint gleaming.
“You shouldn’t be putting so much weight on it.”
“Well, can’t help that, can I? Not if I want to have any sort of a life, out here.” His voice sounds raw and he turns his face away, fighting weakness.
“You gotta take some of the weight off, though.” Fang’s voice pulls him back into the room. Izzy looks up at him. He’s holding something behind his back and now he brings it out. “Pete made you something.” It’s a walking cane.
“I don’t want a new fucking crutch.” He presses his mouth tight and looks away again. “Got to learn to stand on—” he gestures at the leg “—my own … feet.” His voice threatens to fucking crack. “I have to,” he repeats.
Fang holds out the cane. The curved handle is marked by the knife used to carve it, but it’s polished smooth. “It’s not a crutch, Izzy. I’ve seen rich fancy fuckers using a cane. Just try it, eh? Pete only wanted to help.”
That’s just it, isn’t it? They all want to help. Hard to believe he deserves it. In the early days he had been forced to lean on any support he could get, and that had been fucking hard. Fang as often as not, the big man always putting himself at Izzy’s side, but not only Fang, his old comrade. Frenchie was often nearby; in the awful days it felt like he was taking comfort as much as offering it, but lately although his old insouciance has returned, along with his new authority, he still reaches out to Izzy. And then there’s John, offering another big, strong, soft shoulder to lean on and more even than that, seeing more than his tough exterior; Roach with little treats (so much fucking cake); Lucius with his bitchiness, lifting him out of a black mood. And Jim, weird fucker, brave enough to use the knife on him — he owes Jim most of all, owes them his very life.
Every one of them helping him have this new life, this better, softer life.
He reaches for the cane. The handle fits well in his hand and he pulls himself up to stand, leaning his weight on it. “Hand me my leg, will you?”
The ship skips on a wave and he sits again, heavily, as Fang passes the unicorn leg over. Izzy sets the cane aside and straps on the leg, wincing as his stump slides into the wooden support. The leather is beginning to soften with use, but the leg will never not be hard wood. He reaches for the cane again and struggles to his feet, stupid golden hoof firmly planted on the deck, some of his weight on the cane. He takes a few steps across the cabin. Feels easier than before. He looks up at Fang, at the soft expression on his face.
“Better?”
“Yeah. Fuck it.” He turns and walks back, and again, getting used to it, the agony eased a bit.
“Good. You know you can still lean on me, though? On all of us?”
The thing is, he does know they want him to, they don’t mind, it doesn’t reduce him in their eyes. He doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge, not sure he knows how to live in a world where showing your weakest self doesn’t get you killed, doesn’t get you mocked.
“Yeah. Can’t rely on it forever though. I’d be pretty useless.”
“As long as you need. Want to go up on deck now?”
“I better. Check the guys aren’t sailing us onto a reef.” He starts towards the door, moving easier already.
Fang snorts a laugh. “You going up like that, Iz?”
He looks down at himself and realises he’s still stripped to the waist, somehow comfortable in his old scarred skin.
Fang hands him his shirt, helps him into it, letting him lean against his strength when he has to let go of the cane, waiting while he fastens the collar and ties his cravat. He doesn’t need the help. Feels kind of good though. Nice. Fuck, what a world.
Climbing the ladder to the deck while managing the cane is a pain, but he does it, aware of Fang’s presence behind him, ready to support him. Pete sees him as he emerges into the sunlight and throws a look over at Lucius. “Told ya, babe.”
“Looks good,” Lucius says, his eyes raking down Izzy’s body. Guy can’t help himself.
“Thank you, Pete,” Izzy says as he walks over to the rail, glancing up to check the sails. He straightens his back, stands tall. “Seems we’re on a steady course,” he says, as the sun falls on his skin and the sea breeze pushes his hair back off his face. “Looks like we’re okay.”
The thing is, although his body bears the scars of all the hardships of his life, all his choices and the things that have been done to him, things he brought on himself and things he had no control over, it’s still strong. And he’s okay.