Work Text:
Act 1 – Introductions
After a stifled cheer, the crew waits in near-silence, glee barely suppressed, as the Spanish ships steadily move farther away.
“Do we think it’s safe now?” the blond one with a Scandinavian accent asks.
“Their hearing can’t be that good,” says a tall man with dark hair. This was the one with a distinct allergy to physical labor.
“I think this calls for a celebration!” Stede finally says. “Roach! Bring out the good rum! Frenchie, give us a song!”
The man who’d bluntly asked Blackbeard if they would live disappears belowdecks as conversation starts picking up and reappears after a few minutes with a lute. Maybe Bonnet was smarter than he seemed, if he had the sense to bring on a musician.
A party was a waste of resources, though, especially if they were just going to execute these wankers. All the same, people would have their guard down, and maybe he could start to get a sense of what the hell was going on with this crew.
Izzy removed the glove from his right hand to accept a cup of rum from Roach. Their fingers briefly touch, and Izzy gets a glimpse into the other man’s thoughts. I don’t know what this guy’s problem is but tonight everyone deserves to celebrate. “Thanks,” Izzy says. Roach nods and turns away, and Izzy settles into a corner, listening to Frenchie play his lute and sing. He’s really rather talented, with a lovely, low voice.
“A bit of a letdown,” Frenchie had said of the world, but there’s an air of longing to his song. It’s only when someone yells to pick up the tempo that Izzy realizes he’s been sitting there for a while, transfixed. Everyone has had a couple drinks so they’re less likely to notice someone touching them, especially once the dancing starts.
The bald one seems to be paying a lot of attention to Blackbeard, and his arms are bare so he’s an easy target. Izzy walks over and grabs his arm in what he hopes is a friendly manner.
“So how does it feel to be part of Blackbeard’s crew?” Izzy asks.
“You mean back on Blackbeard’s crew,” the man answers.
At the same time, Izzy picks up Man, I hope Blackbeard sees what good work I’m doing, maybe I can get away from this Stede guy. But would that mean never seeing Lucius again? Maybe he’d come with me.
“What’s your name?” Izzy asks, letting go of his arm before it gets too weird.
“The Dread Black Pete,” Pete replies, “maybe you remember me?”
“Yeah sure,” Izzy says, already turning away. He hears Pete yelling something after him.
Lucius seems worth investigating, then. He’s wearing a jacket, and it’s harder to read people through a layer of clothing, but not impossible if he can put some pressure into the contact. The scribe is sitting in a corner with his perennial notebook companion, watching the revelry. Izzy walks over to him and places an ungloved hand firmly on his shoulder. “What’s this, then?” he asks, attempting to sound casual.
Lucius looks up at him, initially surprised, but then his eyes gleam and he smiles up at Izzy. In spite of the clothing barrier, Lucius’s thoughts come through loud and clear: Ooooh, Daddy. Izzy startles, releasing his grip, and tries to regain his composure as Lucius says something about capturing the spirit of the party. Izzy looks down at the notebook and indeed, there’s a liveliness to the sketches of the revelers filling the pages.
“You don’t seem like you’re enjoying yourself, though,” Lucius says.
“Well, I,” Izzy stammers, “I am relaxed.”
“Hmmm,” Lucius regards him with narrowed eyes, still smiling.
“I need to use the head,” Izzy manages to spit out, and flees in that direction with all the dignity he can muster.
He makes an excuse to walk past the Scandinavian guy on the way back from the head, briefly touching his arm. I wonder if Jim really is a mermaid. I mean, they wouldn’t tell us if they were, right?
Izzy shakes his head in frustration. He’s not getting anything useful. Perhaps the musician. He’ll have to wait for him to take a break from playing, but he just keeps going. Pah, Izzy thinks, the energy of the young. But he’s not sorry for the excuse to lean back against the railing and watch. Finally, Frenchie gets up and walks over to the mountain of a man he heard improbably called “Wee John”. Izzy walks over to them.
“I just wanted to complement your playing,” Izzy says, touching his arm.
“Well, thank you,” Frenchie says, looking at Izzy as though he expects him to say something else.
Izzy’s heart skips a beat. He reads … nothing.
What
“Ah… ‘The Mermaid and the Shark’ is one of my old favorites,” Izzy offers.
Frenchie nods enthusiastically. “Do you like music?” he asks.
“Music is useful for sailors. I used to sing, some.”
“You’ll have to sing for us some time, then.”
“‘s not fitting for my role, any more.”
“And who decided that?”
“Me.”
Frenchie raises an eyebrow. “Seems like a shame.”
Act 2 – The Viceroy
Izzy is on the poop deck looking out over the ocean when the boat returns from the French ship. Ed had better still have those silly little purple bows in his hair. It certainly took long enough to tie them in place. Bows in Ed’s beard, people fucking in the store room. He keeps hearing Lucius in his mind: “Have you ever been sketched?” Nothing makes sense with this crew. He wouldn’t care, except that it’s going to get them all killed sooner or later.
Maybe he can find some answers if he reads more of the crew. He jogs down to the main deck to meet the people coming off the boat. He has to admit, they do look good. Ed is stunning in purple, but Ed’s eyes are locked onto Stede. Izzy’s stomach lurches uncomfortably. Best to focus on Stede’s crew. Frenchie is starting to relay the story of passing Oluwande off as Egyptian royalty. It’s an impressive feat. Oluwande does look regal in his red waistcoat and long-tailed jacket, and most French nobility are idiots, but it still must have required some skillful talking.
“Being a viceroy is hard work!” Frenchie says. “Didn’t really manage to get my hands on any of the fancy snacks, so I’m going to go see if Roach has leftovers from dinner. Prince Aziz, you coming?”
“I’m actually going to go find Jim,” Oluwande answers.
“Suit yourself,” Frenchie says and heads down to the mess.
Ed and Stede have wandered to the railing at the other side of the ship, and are talking softly to each other. Ed’s eyes are soft, in a way Izzy hasn’t seen in years. Izzy feels like someone is standing on his chest. He tears his eyes away and follows Frenchie down the ladder.
In the warmth of the mess, Frenchie has shed his jacket. Perfect. Surely it was just interference from clothing last time, and this time he’ll be able to read him. Izzy fills his mug with coffee and settles in next to him at the table.
“Hi, uh, Izzy,” Frenchie says, eyeing him cautiously.
OK, Izzy, you need to say something now.
“Just getting coffee since I have the night watch starting soon. You’re Frenchie, right?” Izzy asks.
“Yeah,” Frenchie says, his expression still guarded. The lanterns cast flickering shadows over him. His profile is elegant, his face not yet marked by weather and worry the way Izzy’s is.
“That was brilliant, what you did to the French,” Izzy says. Frenchie smiles and his whole face lights up. Izzy smiles back, unable to help himself.
“Thanks,” Frenchie says, “It helps to have a co-conspirator, someone you can bounce ideas off of.”
“Yeah,” Izzy says, thinking of Ed and their days of riffing off of each other. Izzy was the anvil to Ed’s hammer, shaping the plans that brought them wealth and renown, not just survival. “There’s strength in teaming up with someone you can trust.”
Frenchie turns his face towards him, his expression searching, the eye contact intense. Izzy’s heart skips, and he takes his chance, turning towards Frenchie and placing his ungloved left hand firmly onto the other man’s arm.
In the loaded silence, the ship creaks.
“What are you doing, Izzy?” Frenchie asks. Izzy’s heart is racing now, but he still feels nothing of Frenchie’s thoughts. It’s not completely unheard of for him to be unable to read someone, but it’s been decades since it happened. It’s another sledgehammer to the foundations of his life, and he feels them crumbling beneath him. He scrambles for something, anything to hold on to for balance.
He looks at Frenchie’s face, his lips, his strong, bare arm that he is still holding tightly, and back up into his eyes. “Izzy?” Frenchie says.
“Maybe … maybe sometimes it’s possible to learn to trust new people,” Izzy says, leaning towards Frenchie.
Frenchie’s eyes flash understanding, and he leans ever so slightly towards Izzy. He pauses a painfully long moment, face inches away. Then his expression hardens and he says “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. You-Don’t-Get-Food-When-You’ve-Been-Invaded,” before pointedly turning back to his dinner.
“Right, that’s fair,” Izzy says, staring into the depths of his half-full coffee mug. He drains it, stands, and leaves.
Act 3 – The Cat
The next evening
“Get back here, you little twat!” Izzy whisper-yells.
The black cat saunters off with his cravat, undeterred. “Thief, you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” The cat regards him with golden eyes, tail in the air slowly flicking back and forth. He’d been playing with the cat, wiggling the cravat just over the floor to watch her chase it when she caught the end before he could pull it away.
“Fine,” Izzy sighs, holding out a piece of fish he’d brought from the mess for her. “C’mere.” He extracts his tie from her mouth as she reaches for the offered food. He strokes her glossy fur for a moment as she eats.
Izzy noticed the cat a few days after they’d come aboard the Revenge. She stalked silently through the shadows of the lower decks, likely hunting rats. Cats were good to have aboard a ship for that reason. Brutal and beautiful, they always earned their keep.
He gradually figured out that she would spend most days in the hold and go up to the stores at night after most of the crew went to sleep. He’d just called her “Cat” until he saw her swipe a piece of meat off the counter while Roach was on the other side of the kitchen. After that, she was Thief, and he made a point to bring her bits of meat or fish from time to time to tide her over between rats, so that she wouldn’t earn Roach’s ire as soon as she was indiscreet.
Scratching behind Thief’s ears, Izzy considers his situation. He’d “lost” the duel with Stede Fucking Bonnet on a technicality. He spent the first hour or so afterwards shaking with rage, and even now the jeers of the crew were ringing in his ears. Now he was to be banished from the ship, on account of the rules that he himself had set, figuring there was no way he could lose. Un-fucking-believable. At least he’d been permitted to stay the night and leave in the morning. Undignified to linger like a beaten dog, but far safer than leaving in the dead of night, even with the moon still close to full.
Thief meows at him. She can smell the extra food he brought for her tonight. He holds out another piece. “Daddy has to leave for a while,” he says to her while she eats. “Be a good girl for me. Keep the rats out of Bonnet’s fancy food.”
“Right, I guess I should at least try to sleep.”
Act 4 – Survival
Nights on the Revenge for Blackbeard’s new crew in the post-Stede era are somehow both too short and too long. They’re always on the move, raiding, training, or sorting the loot. Nights are full of unspoken questions about the people who aren’t there.
The days blur into each other and the new crew forms an uneasy bond. Frenchie tries to get out his lute most evenings in the gun deck after dinner, and they seem to appreciate it. He’s been trading songs with the crew, new and old. Everything Jim sings is stunningly bawdy. Fang knows all the old shanties. Archie has a lovely clear alto, although most of her songs seem to be about snakes for some reason. Even Izzy shows up regularly, although he always demurs when Frenchie invites him to sing something.
Blackbeard never comes down to the gun deck.
Some weeks into the new routine, Izzy staggers into the mess after the rest of the crew have started eating, his makeup smeared and hair disheveled. He dumps some food into a bowl and sits down heavily on the bench across from Frenchie. A few strands of his hair fall loose as he looks down at the stew and prods at it with a chunk of hardtack.
Frenchie tries to sympathize. “Yeah, it’s not the best, is it? But we’ve got to eat to keep going, right?” The stew is simultaneously bland and too salty. At least there’s real meat in it, but he misses Roach terribly.
Izzy looks up at him briefly, then tries to take a bite of his stew and initially gags on it before washing it down with a swig of rum.
“He’s… Blackbeard’s …” Izzy starts.
“Yeah, go on?” Frenchie says.
“You need your strength,” Izzy says. “Blackbeard wants to pick up the pace.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s going after Ned Low’s record.”
“Oh fuck,” says Jim, from their spot next to Izzy.
Izzy pokes at his stew again, looking pale. He puts down the spoon, stands up, and then starts to crumple. He drops his bowl and it hits the floor with a crash, spilling stew. Jim, quick as always, catches Izzy, and he slumps over, head against their arm. A look of horror comes over their face. “Why did I just see Blackbeard cut off my toe except that I was Izzy and what the fuck.”
“Help me out here,” Jim says. Frenchie jumps up, as does Archie, and they help him over to a corner where some nets are piled up that they can rest him against. Izzy moans, still pale.
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly good scientific explanation for this,” Frenchie says, “No reason to panic.”
At that moment, Frenchie hears a meow and looks over to see a black cat eating the stew Izzy spilled. Now that a witch is here they are really in trouble! He shrieks before he can stop himself. Izzy opens his eyes.
“That’s why Jim hallucinated about Blackbeard!” Frenchie says. “It’s a witch!”
Izzy smiles faintly. “No,” he says, “That was me.”
“So YOU’RE a witch,” Frenchie says.
“Not exactly. I can see other people’s thoughts by touching them, or sometimes they can see mine.”
“You mean you’ve been able to do this all this time, and never told us?” Jim asks.
“I try not to most of the time, just when I need to,” Izzy says.
“So … that actually happened to you,” Frenchie says, and finally notices the blood soaking through Izzy’s boot.
“Yeah,” Izzy says, still looking pale.
“When?” Frenchie asks.
“Just an hour ago.”
“What do you need? We should get the wound cleaned.”
“I cleaned it already, just let me rest here a bit,” Izzy says.
“Mmm, seems a bit inadequate to me,” Frenchie says. “We need our first mate in fighting shape, not falling over. Jim, can you get him some water? Fang, you’ve been at sea longest, can you help us take a look at his foot? Archie, can you get some water boiling for rags?”
Izzy groans. Fang says, “Maybe get some rum, too, Jim, please?” Jim nods and heads for the stores. Fang sits at Izzy’s feet, pulling a sewing kit out of some unseen pocket.
Frenchie makes a point to keep an eye on the cat, in case it decides to try something. It seems content with the overturned stew for now.
Jim returns and hands the water and the rum to Izzy, their mouth set in a line. “We are going to talk about this thing where you can read minds.” Izzy looks back at them, expression tired but open. He takes a swig of the rum, then the water. “What do you want to know?” he says.
“How long have you been able to do this?” Jim asks.
“For as long as I can remember,” Izzy replies.
“Have you read my mind?”
“Back when you first came on the ship, yes.”
Jim’s hand flies to their knife handle on instinct. “Puta de mierda. What did you learn?”
“Mostly that you had a crush on Oluwande.”
“Hey! That wasn’t your business!”
“No, it wasn’t,” Izzy admits. “But I didn’t tell anyone, and I just needed to be sure that you lot didn’t have secret plans to take out Blackbeard.”
Jim seems to relax slightly but keeps a hand on their knife. Frenchie decides it’s his turn. “What did you read from me?” he says.
“Nothing,” Izzy replies.
“You’re lying.”
“Nope. It’s happened once or twice before in my life.” Izzy tilts his head to one side and looks right back at him. “I can try again, if you want.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
The corner of Izzy’s mouth quirks up.
Archie returns with the freshly boiled rags and some of the hot water. Fang gently lifts Izzy’s left heel. Izzy draws in a hissing breath and takes another large swallow of rum. “Izzy, I’m going to take your boot off now, OK?”
“Yeah, but give me a minute,” Izzy says. “And Frenchie? Play something to keep me distracted.” Izzy takes one more swig of rum, removes one of his belts and bites down on it. “OK,” he says through clenched teeth.
Frenchie remembers his exchange with Izzy at the party, what feels like years ago. He plays the opening chords of “The Mermaid and the Shark”. Izzy’s brows unfurrows momentarily as he recognizes it, and then wistful sadness crosses his face and he closes his eyes, before wincing as Fang works his boot off.
Frenchie sings, drawing out the song, embellishing and repeating verses until Fang’s work is done. Izzy falls back on the pile of netting and takes the belt out of his mouth. He drinks some of the water and says, “Thief!”
“Excuse me?” says Frenchie. And sees the cat running right towards them! He yelps and jumps away, almost dropping the lute, but the cat is actually running towards Izzy, who has just the worst luck of anyone he knows. “Izzy! Watch out!” Frenchie says. But it’s too late — the cat has already landed on Izzy’s lap.
Frenchie decides that it’s time to be brave, and lunges for the cat to save Izzy. The cat hisses and scratches at his hand, and he jumps back immediately. “See!” he says, “I told you they have knives for feet!”
Izzy is looking at him, face creased in confusion. The cat curls back up on Izzy’s lap. Fang looks disturbed, though. “I thought the rule was no pets,” he says.
“Well,” Izzy says and then pauses, looking thoughtful. “For one thing, Thief here is a hard-working member of our crew, keeping the rats out of our stores. For another, maybe rules can change when they don’t work for us any more.”
“How are you going to hide her from Blackbeard?” Fang asks.
“She knows to avoid him, and avoids most of the people on the ship.”
“But she likes you,” Frenchie observes. Izzy gives another of his rueful half-smiles. “I feed her sometimes,” he says, stroking Thief’s fur. “Looks like there’s a little more to it than that,” Jim observes from where they’re sitting with Archie. As though on cue, the cat gets up, stretches, and vanishes into the shadows, tail in the air.
Finally, Frenchie articulates the thing that’s been bothering him. “Why the fuck. Did Blackbeard. Cut off your toe. Another toe.”
Izzy exhales and looks away from them. “Remember this morning when a couple guys got away in a dinghy with some of the treasure?” he says.
“Sure,” Frenchie says, “But that was because Fang got distracted, not because you did something wrong.”
“Not my fault!” Fang says.
“I told him it was my fault,” Izzy says.
“Did he believe you?”
“Of course not, but it doesn’t matter. He knows I’ll always… He knows I can read him when he lays a hand on me, and that’s why I know what this is really about. And this is why I know he’s goading Ned Low.”
Act 5 – La Vie En Rose
After that night, Izzy becomes a somewhat more regular presence among the crew. He walks with a noticeable limp, but his expression softens now when he’s greeted, even if his words are still harsh and well-salted with profanity. He tends to appear after bringing food to Blackbeard, and rests in the corner with his bad foot up while Frenchie plays his lute. Often, when Frenchie looks up, Izzy is looking at him. Frenchie smiles back and lets his gaze linger.
The days of endless raids are exhausting, but at night Blackbeard mostly retreats to his cabin to brood or do jigsaw puzzles or plot the next raid or whatever it is that he does in there. Frenchie worries about where they’re headed but at least he has these moments with the crew around him. Their profound exhaustion deepens the comfort of an arm around his shoulder or a knowing glance. He tries not to think too hard about their days, and focuses on his music in the evenings after dinner.
Trying to keep the music fresh, he’s been digging out songs from memories of his childhood. Tonight he’s playing one he’d nearly forgotten about, that he heard sung by girls working in shops in Port-Au-Prince:
Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Qu'il me parle tout bas
Je vois la vie en rose
On the second chorus, he hears another voice: Izzy’s. His is not the clear voice of youth. It’s breathy, a voice of smoke and leather and ocean winds, worn by tides and time. One or two of the other crew look up and smile at the new development. Jim whispers something to Archie.
Frenchie and Izzy finish the song together. After it ends, Frenchie walks over and sits next to Izzy.
“I thought you said you didn’t sing any more,” Frenchie says.
“I decided I probably couldn’t lower your opinion of me any more, so there was nothing to lose,” Izzy replies.
“I thought your singing was lovely.”
“Fuck off.” Izzy’s eyes sparkle in the warm lantern light before he turns his face away. A lock of hair falls to the side of his face, framing the line of his jaw.
“I was thinking about how you can’t read my thoughts with your powers,” Frenchie says. “Do you want to try again? Maybe if I’m trying to send them to you it works?”
Izzy’s eyebrows go up and then his expression softens. “Sure. I confess to being curious as well. Come sit right across from me.” Frenchie does so, a flutter in his chest.
“I already told you that it works better if we have skin-to-skin contact,” Izzy says.
“Yeah got it,” Frenchie says, sloughing off his jacket. Izzy takes the glove off of his right hand, and reaches for him. Izzy’s left hand grasps Frenchie’s right arm gently but firmly. He places his right hand on the side of his face, thumb at his temple, and tilts their heads together, eyes closing.
Frenchie can’t feel anything except the pounding of his heart. Oh yeah, he remembers after a moment, I should think about something so Izzy can read it. Needs to be silly so he can’t just guess. But mostly he’s aware of Izzy’s warmth and the gentle pressure on his skin. He opens his eyes after a moment and sees an expression of calm focus on Izzy’s face.
“Is it working?” Frenchie can’t help but ask.
Izzy pulls back slightly, opening his eyes. “I still don’t pick up anything,” he says, “but I do feel … connected to you somehow.” His hand slides to the back of Frenchie’s neck, keeping their faces close. Frenchie reaches out and places his hand on Izzy’s shoulder to pull him closer.
“Yeah,” Frenchie says, “I feel it too.” His arm is shaking. The air between them feels charged.
“Would you like to come to my room with me?” Izzy says quietly.
“Very much so,” Frenchie says.
Because this crew misses nothing they hear a few friendly jibes as they leave together. “‘Bout time,” Frenchie hears Fang say.
They’re on each other almost before they get the door closed behind them. Izzy kisses with the same intensity he brings to everything, leaving Frenchie breathless. He runs his fingers through Izzy’s hair. “I want you,” he says. “Show me,” Izzy replies.
Some time later, having exhausted and satisfied themselves for the moment, they’re lying in Izzy’s bed. Frenchie is lying on his back with Izzy’s head on his shoulder, and they’ve pulled the covers up against the evening chill as their sweat cools.
Frenchie hears a tiny meow and tenses up. Izzy must feel it, because he says “Don’t worry, I’ll keep Thief away from you.” At that moment, the cat jumps onto the bed and curls up on Izzy’s chest. She looks right at Frenchie, golden eyes all but glowing in the lantern light, but makes no move to attack. Man and cat regard each other for a moment, and Izzy looks up at him.
“Try holding the back of your hand out to her, slowly,” Izzy says, and Frenchie does, nervously. The cat sniffs at him, head drawing back with every inhale. It’s … actually kind of cute. Frenchie smiles, and Izzy smiles back at him. “Her ferocity is to survive and to protect her own, and well, sometimes for the hell of it,” Izzy says, “but she knows who’s on her side.”
“Hmm,” says Frenchie, and manages to briefly pet the soft fur on the top of Thief’s head. “Sound like anyone we know?” He looks at Izzy conspiratorially.
“Sounds like all of us,” Izzy says. Frenchie shifts onto his side, startling Thief, who jumps down from the bed and disappears.
Frenchie traces a finger down Izzy’s still-bare chest. Soon he’ll need to go back to his own bed, then get up in the morning to face a new day, but for now he has a moment to soak in the wonder that they get to have this moment and hope for many more like it.