Chapter Text
It's a slow day. Izzy's doing his mid-morning rounds, checking that all the chores are being done correctly, and that the crew haven't started playing cards or other such nonsense. It hasn't happened yet, but Izzy knows them by now. It'll happen soon enough.
As if like clockwork, Izzy's ears twitch. He can hear the sound of laughter and music from the sterncastle, where Frenchie and Wee John were supposed to braid rope and mend a chest of shirts and trousers. Typical.
Izzy shakes his head and makes his way there. Predictably, the music stops well before he climbs up the winding staircase, the sound of his hoof easily recognisable, but the laughter doesn't quiet.
"Hey there, Izzy!" Frenchie greets him.
Izzy sighs. "Once more, it's Mr. Hands."
Frenchie tips an imaginary hat to Izzy. "Sure is, Mr. Hands."
At first, Izzy had thought it to be a challenge of his authority, the way Frenchie gets his title wrong, but recently... Izzy has come to the conclusion that it's a gauge more than anything. A quick way to test Izzy's temper of the day.
These days, Izzy's mood is better than it has been in years, and he shrugs off the small slight without effort.
He tries not to think about the why behind his mood improving.
Across the ship, he can hear the Captain's voice, cheery and bright as usual. He can't make out the words, but he finds himself straightening his back slightly more than before.
"Everything alright there, Mr. Hands?" Wee John asks, and Izzy shakes himself.
Right. Back to work.
"It would be alright... if the two of you could stay on task, Mr. Feeney." Izzy raises a brow, seeing Wee John look guiltily over at Frenchie.
Though he has the wherewithal to control his expression much better than his companion, Frenchie still has his own tells, and the way he leans makes it clear that he's well aware of his guilt. "C'mon, Mr. Hands. You know Captain says we're allowed quarter hour breaks every three hours."
"And when was your last break, Frenchie?" Izzy isn't in a bad enough mood to interrogate his crew, but he has a test to run.
"Oh, I'd say almost three hours ago." Frenchie smiles, the picture of innocence, but Izzy doesn't buy it for a second.
"Are you sure about that? I seem to recall Lucius mentioning coming to listen to you sing on your break a mere quarter hour ago."
Bingo.
Frenchie folds, sighing, and Wee John wrings his hands, always the first to apologize. "Sorry, Mr. Hands."
"Sorry," Frenchie echos, though his face lights up quickly at something he sees over Izzy's shoulder.
"Hello, chaps! How are we all doing on this fine afternoon?" Izzy has been so focused on the minutiae of Frenchie's demeanor that he hadn't heard the clack of heeled shoes approaching. Before he can turn to greet his Captain properly, Stede Bonnet has wrapped an arm around to clap a hand on his shoulder, leaning in to press their sides together.
The unexpected motion startles Izzy, and he twitches away a fraction before he can stop himself. Stede doesn't seem to notice, but continues chattering without allowing Frenchie or Wee John a chance to answer. "We're coming into the Santa-Lucia port in a few days, do either of you know a good spot there? Any recommendations to speak of?"
Stede smells like soap and the new varnish Black Pete is using for the wood in the mess. Izzy wonders if Stede accidentally sat on one of the benches while it was still wet this morning, dragging the scent of it all the way outside.
"Yeah," Wee John grunts. "I went there once. They've got some beautiful mangoes. You can pick them right off the tree, they have enough that no one cares to stop you. Best I ever had, to be honest. Ate it right there in the field."
"Oh," Stede says, and his nose wrinkles. Izzy wonders at the sight of that motion up close. "That's not quite what I had in mind."
"What, you don't like mango, Captain?" Frenchie asks, and Izzy sees the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He feels like he's missing the joke, and he narrows his eyes. Stede's hand is resting on his shoulders, and he's running his fingers over the crease of fabric there, and idle motion, certainly.
"Pish, I like them well enough. I was more thinking a place to eat, actually," Stede says, and his hand is picking at the edge of Izzy's collar now, the occasional touch of skin against skin electrifying. "A proper restaurant. Dinner, perhaps?"
"Dunno if they have that, to be honest. And you'll be going all by yourself, then?" Wee John asks. Frenchie snickers, but at Izzy's glare, he ducks to pick up the cord of rope he was supposed to be braiding.
The thought of Stede having dinner alone shouldn't make something strange flip in Izzy's stomach, but it does. Strange. Izzy doesn't like strange things. He straightens his back and shakes off Stede's hand, the contact suddenly difficult to bear. "Well, nice as it is to chat about inane things, we have things to do, gentlemen, and I'd say that you've had your break for the next few hours."
Frenchie and Wee John sigh in unison, and Izzy turns away to make his way down the staircase. A "yes, Mr. Hands," follows him and he hears Stede let out an inquisitive noise.
"’Mr. Hands’? That’s formal! What's that all about? " he asks, and Izzy stalks away faster.
"The crew needs to show some measure of respect, Bonnet." Izzy huffs over his shoulder.
Unfortunately, Stede's longer legs mean that he catches up, likely hardly noticing that Izzy was trying to escape at all, the oblivious idiot. He walks side by side with Izzy, his hand dangling between them as if he expects Izzy to take it and clasp it in his own. "Well then, Mr. Hands, are there no other ways for the crew to demonstrate their respect?"
"They could follow my orders and not sneak in extra breaks, but that won't fucking happen unless you tell them to stop slacking off." It's fucking ridiculous, the fact that the crew will listen to Bonnet—they bitch about it, certainly, but they still listen—and ignore Izzy's orders if they don't suit their fancy. Izzy is trying to keep them all alive, damnit.
At least they mostly do their assigned tasks, so it isn't like Izzy has to issue that many orders. And when he makes it clear that an order is of critical importance, they always jump to it immediately. Still, it's nothing like how the crew on the Anne behaved, practically begging Izzy to give them orders that they could follow, and Izzy doesn't know what to do with it most days. This crew "cares," whatever that means, giving Izzy a leg and keeping alcohol out of his sight after his binge upon Ed's departure, but still, he doesn't feel like they respect him. It's an important distinction and Izzy doesn't know how to earn what he really wants.
Stede laughs, warm and full-bellied, at Izzy's words. "It's a process, Mr. Hands! It won't do to force it, you know that. And enrichment is important!" His hand brushes over Izzy's again, the touch of contact lingering and making Izzy's breath catch. It stays there, prolonging for too long for it to be an accident. For one mad moment, Izzy considers taking it.
Then, Izzy catches sight of Jim and Archie sneaking beneath deck. Both of them are supposed to be tarring the fo'c'sle, their hands blackened and sticky, and they had been doing that until half a bell ago. Now, though... Izzy grits his teeth and snatches his hand away.
"Jimenez!" he barks as he sets out to follow them. "Archie! Get your asses back up here!"
Stede stays put, and from the chuckle that trails after him, Izzy's certain that there's a grin on the Captain’s face. "So, drills later, yes?"
Izzy casts a glance backwards, wondering for a moment if he's forgotten about a change of plans. They always practice a bit of swordplay in the evening, before story-time. "Of course," he says. "Same time as usual." If his stomach does a little flip at the sight of Stede's dopey smile in response, well... perhaps he ate something untoward. And the waves are a bit choppy, right? He looks at the still surface of the sea.
Strange. Best not think about that.
Though Izzy knows he will, and he does. As nighttime approaches, those thoughts have consumed Izzy's mind, making him wonder what is going on between him and his Captain. The little touches and gestures have been slowly increasing in frequency for months, and Izzy doesn't know why they still catch him off guard when they occur multiple times a day.
He ponders that the strange dynamic might be what causes the lack of respect from the crew—it is entirely possible that they see his actions as fraternizing with their captain. It seems unlikely with this lot, but still entirely possible. Perhaps Izzy should pull Stede aside after their bout and address things, and tell him that the familiarity needs to stop. The thought of doing so makes a maw open wide in Izzy's stomach, ready to consume whatever might deign to come near it, but he ignores that.
Stede probably touches him so much because he misses Edward, and he likely hasn't even realized that he does it. If Izzy points it out to him, the touches will stop naturally because he doesn't want Izzy as a stand-in. Surely, if he realizes he wants companionship, he can find some other man to have dinner in his cabin, to touch, to do more than he does with Izzy regardless, like sleeping together and holding them properly. Izzy would want to rip any man apart who tried to take his place, but that is merely his position as first mate. He wants to protect his Captain from any hurt, even if the emotional variety, and relationships can only lead to pain much of the time. Izzy felt the same way with Edward, so he knows that the urges are normal for a first mate. The only things he won't give up to any potential partner are sparring drills and following Stede around on his ridiculous excursions on land. No one can train Stede or keep him safe as well as Izzy, and he won't let Stede make a mistake for something as insignificant as romance.
Walking to sparring practice feels like walking to the gallows, but Izzy does his best not to let it show on his face.
Stede is already there, his arms stretching down towards the floor, his ass in the air. He's half-undressed, the fancy coat and breeches replaced by something simpler, but still frilly and flowing. His clacky heels are off as well, and instead Stede is wearing soft-soled boots, laced up neatly.
Izzy shakes his head. They've had this discussion before. Stede needs to be able to fight in what he's actually wearing; there's no telling when an attack might surprise them.
"Ah, Mr. Hands," Stede says when he unfolds, standing upright, tall and beautiful in the flickering candlelight. He looks a vision, gold and pale, the white of his shirt catching the light and becoming soft, almost ethereal.
Izzy realises his train of thought after a heartbeat, and clenches his teeth for a moment. Seven hells, but he's down bad.
"How was your day?" Stede asks as he takes the sword that Izzy is reaching towards him. At the exchange, his fingers enclose over Izzy's, resting there for a moment, sliding their fingers together, and Izzy inhales sharply. He allows the touch for a second longer than what he should, and then he withdraws, feeling an immediate pang of loss.
"It was fine," Izzy answers brusquely, and his voice comes out rougher than intended. Stede frowns, and Izzy feels compelled to continue. "They're lazy, but they're starting to improve. They're still a disrespectful bunch, but—" he shrugs. "Anyway, we need to go over the logs before making port, and—"
"Izzy," Stede interjects, a mirthful smile on his lips, and Izzy's heart leaps at the sound of his name in Stede's mouth. "I asked about your day, not for a status report. Did you do anything nice?"
The question makes Izzy pause. 'I'm doing something nice right now,' he wants to say. Instead he clears his throat. "It was a day as any other, Captain," he says, and it feels like charcoal in his mouth. "And... your day?" he continues, unsure of how this is supposed to go.
It's the right thing to say, it seems, because Stede lights up.
"I had a lovely day! After we spoke earlier, I had afternoon tea in my cabin with Lucius to discuss some... Personal matters. He recommended this outfit, actually!" Stede points down at his clothes with a flourish, and Izzy feels bile at the back of his throat. He knows what 'discussing personal matters with Lucius' means when most of the crew says it, but he can't be sure if the captain means it literally or not.
Either way, it puts Izzy on the defensive, and he is perhaps more abrupt than need be when he replies. "You know I told you not to change for these lessons. If we get boarded, you'll be fighting in your normal frilly shit, not something sensible like this. It would make sense if you dressed like this all the time, but you don't."
Watching Stede wilt like a flower that has been exposed to too much sun makes Izzy want to pull back on himself, but he knows that his point is reasonable, no matter how harshly he might have made it.
"I don't think it would be impossible for me to throw off a jacket and end up in something more like this even were we to be ambushed. It's not like removing a layer takes an inordinate amount of time. Besides, Lucius said I looked good in this—he insisted you would like it." The last few words sound like a plea, and Izzy is struck by the way Stede is looking at him, eyes wide and innocent.
Izzy falters for a short moment before the notion of Stede, with a sword piercing his chest strikes him. "'An inordinate amount of time'," Izzy sneers. "It takes a second, less, even, for someone to kill you. Wasting time getting undressed is an idiot's game." Izzy raises his sword in an en garde. "And looks have nothing to do with it. Come on."
Stede follows his motion, but there's a flash of something wounded on his face. For a moment he looks as if he might say something, but then he swallows and gets in position, legs slightly bent, his back straight, and his shoulders pushed back.
Izzy eyes his stance critically. "Better," he says. "But your toes are still pointing out."
Stede looks down on his feet, and a frown appears on his face. "No, they're not!"
With a sigh, Izzy lets his sword drop, and walks to Stede. "Here," he says, and nudges the toe of Stede's boot to the side with his hoof. "Like this."
Stede grimaces. "That feels wrong."
"The enemy won't care about how it feels," Izzy spits, and that makes Stede frown at him.
"But you're not my enemy," he sniffs.
The words bring Izzy to a stop. "I... What?" he asks, suddenly wondering if he'd missed something.
"You're not my enemy. So you should care about how it feels."
Izzy frowns. "Did you hit your head without me noticing?"
Stede huffs. "You could've said that I look nice."
"Captain, what the hell—" Izzy starts, confusion bleeding into his voice.
Stede narrows his eyes at Izzy. "Hm. Let's spar, then," he says and his face shutters.
At a loss, Izzy returns to his spot, a pace away from Stede. He raises his sword again, and the spar begins.
Stede does well, today. Izzy keeps a close eye on his footwork, and at the side he tends to leave open, but there's a grim determination in the set of Stede's jaw, and he's far more focused than he usually is. Gone are the chirpy mannerisms, and the lighthearted jabs, and Izzy finds himself working up a sweat as Stede's feints become more and more clever.
If Stede is taking things more seriously for once, Izzy won't look a gift horse in the mouth, even if the unplanned strenuous nature of their sparring has his hoof leg aching. The way Stede looks now is more serious than even when he and Izzy had truly dueled, back during Izzy's initial stint on the Revenge, and he doesn't know how to feel about it. Stede was right—they aren't enemies, and Izzy doesn't love the feeling of Stede looking at him like one.
Soldiering on, Izzy does what he always does. He pushes the feelings down so that he can get his job done. Stede needs to learn, and if Izzy has to be a taskmaster to accomplish that, then he will do as needs must.
What he doesn't expect is for Stede to win.
The feint isn't even the most clever that he's seen, but after half an hour of sparring after a long day of work, Izzy is starting to get tired, and he doesn't have his guard up as much as he might in a real fight. He would never expect the Gentleman Pirate of all people to take advantage of his weakness, but that's exactly what Stede does, tripping him by his horse leg and lunging forward to tackle him to the deck, knocking Izzy's sword away and pressing his own against Izzy's throat.
"You're getting better," Izzy grins. "Dirty trick though. That's good." The metal of the sword doesn't waver, and he looks away from where his eyes have been fixed on Stede's lips, a thin line, pressed together.
"Yield," Stede says coldly, and Izzy feels a jolt of arousal at the word, at the dark eyes boring into his own. The steel at his throat is sharp, and Izzy's breath hitches as a flood of memories return, years of memories of Ed's eyes like this, Ed's hand on his throat.
It's familiar, achingly so, and he yearns for it, despite himself. He could push it, if Stede is anything like Ed, could push the pain, the shared suffering between a First Mate and a Captain into being, as easy as nothing.
"Yield," he rasps out instead after a long minute, but the pressure on his throat doesn't lessen. "... Captain?" he asks a heartbeat later, less certain now.
The title seems to bring Stede back, a bit, and he blinks. The sword stays put, but Stede leans closer, kneeling astride Izzy. Izzy's hands twitch, the urge to reach out and grab onto Stede's hips almost too much to bear, but he keeps them flat against the deck.
"You'll have dinner with me tomorrow. In port," Stede says, and his tone is odd. "Wear something nice."
Izzy's mouth is dry. "I..." he says. "I was going to stay here, update our inventory logs and—" the pressure against his throat lessens and Stede's brows take on a sad twist. "Fuck, fine," Izzy says, and his hands are on Stede's thighs, and when did that happen. "I can do the logs the day after, just let me the hell up."
Stede's face splits into a brilliant smile at that. "Wonderful!" he says, the sword still dangerously close to Izzy's neck, and somehow he gets the sense that Stede's forgotten about it. "We'll leave after fifth bell, that should give us plenty of time to work out the restocking, and—" Stede gestures with his free hand, as if he's not sitting with his ass flush against Izzy's groin, and a fucking sword threatening to end Izzy’s life with one wrong movement.
"Captain, do you mind..?”
"Oh! Deepest apologies, darling. You distracted me a bit." The sword is gone before Izzy can blink, quickly sheathed and completely removed as a threat.
Izzy expects Stede to scramble off of him next, but his captain doesn't seem inclined at all towards movement, instead continuing on with his rambling from before. "Anyway, as I said, fifth bell, tomorrow evening. You agree that will give us sufficient time for ensuring the crew has completed the restocking to your specifications, yes?"
Though Izzy is incredibly distracted by Stede's ass against his hips, and he can't help but flex his hands where they are still resting on Stede's thighs, he knows that Stede seems to want to have a normal conversation and will pout if Izzy doesn't provide a detailed enough answer to his question. "So long as you have Boodhari and Roach on handling the restocking rather than Spriggs or Feeney, yeah, that should be more than enough time."
"Fab! Exactly what I was hoping for." Confirmation received, Stede finally stands, freeing Izzy as he flounces over to receive Izzy's sword. Izzy can finally push himself into a sitting position, surprised to see a hand in front of his face when he looks up. "Need a hand?”
Izzy takes it with barely any hesitation. Stede has always been strong and broad, his figure hidden away beneath frills and lace, and he's filled out even further in the last few months. He pulls Izzy to his feet easily and when Izzy wobbles at his feet, Stede steps closer and steadies him.
"Easy there," he says, and Izzy scoffs.
"I'm not a fucking horse, Captain."
"Oh, I know,"Stede says softly. His hand trails up to rest on Izzy's shoulder, and Izzy remembers his intention to talk to him about it, the touching, to discourage it.
"Captain, I—" Izzy falters. "I do have a concern. The... this," he gestures, and stares at Stede's lips. "The crew, they're already disrespectful and I fear that this isn't improving it any, and—"
Stede's eyes crinkle, delighted, it seems. "Why, Izzy, I hardly think that'll matter any, hm? You'll have their respect regardless!"
With a frown, Izzy looks Stede in the eye. "That's the issue though, I don't—"
"There are worse things in life than a few good-hearted jibes, Mr. Hands!"
"But—"
A bell tolls up on deck, and Stede jumps to attention. "Goodness! Time flies, it's time for storytime! I've not even changed!"
Stede dashes towards the door and leaves Izzy standing in the middle of the room. Just before he vanishes out the door, he peers at Izzy intently. "Tomorrow. Dinner."
Izzy waves him off. "Yes, yes," he sighs, but Stede is already gone.
So much for that plan. Izzy isn't sure that he got anything out of his evening spar other than frustration and confusion, but considering that those are the two emotions he can name that Stede Bonnet most frequently evokes in him, he shouldn't be surprised by that.
Unsure what to do with himself, Izzy finds a spot on deck to rest, pulling out a block of wood and his knife from his pocket to continue with his most recent whittling project. His selected place is far enough from the crew that they won't be able to pull him in for family bonding during storytime but close enough that if he listens closely, he can hear Stede's booming voice as he retells whatever story they're currently reading. Wuthering Heights, a traitorous voice in Izzy's mind supplied. They're reading Wuthering Heights. There is no reason Izzy should know that, since he doesn't ever truly intend to listen during storytime.
The crew are noisy as they file in, gossipping about goodness knows what considering that they all see one another every minute of the day, yet they somehow still have things to report to one another each evening. It must be exhausting, paying so much attention to the idiots around them. Though there isn't much that Izzy hears in the whispers that he didn't already know.
Frenchie, Wee John, and Black Pete are murmuring to each other.
"Did you hear Archie shrieking earlier? She wouldn't tell me what was happening," Pete asks, and Izzy scoffs quietly.
Feeney chuckles. "She was in the storeroom, sneaking a snack, aye?"
"Mmm, yeah, she came running out super fast," Pete says.
"She probably got freaked out by Maude," Feeney answers. "Y'know, the rat?"
There's a shuddering sound, Frenchie, Izzy thinks. "We have a rat named Maude?! Why does it have a name?"
Feeney hums. "She's very big. Just seemed right, you know? Something that big should have a name."
There's silence for a few moments while the others contemplate this. Then—
"Roach squirreled away another batch of sugar today," Izzy hears Feeney saying. "I saw him, what do you reckon he's going to do with it?"
Izzy's mouth quirks into a smile. It's gratifying that they haven't figured it out yet.
It's Frenchie's birthday soon. The cook is making a cake, a tall, elaborate piece, which Izzy had refused to allow him resources for. It's a waste of good produce, to make something so extravagant, and well... If Izzy starts allotting special resources for one birthday cake, he's sure that it'll become a habit. Better for the crew to learn how to be smart about it. Izzy's sure that Roach will restock cleverly, and within the allowance that Izzy gives him.
“I wonder what he’s doing with it,” Pete says. “Maybe he’s making himself those little pastries that the Captain likes, just all for himself.”
“Oh, come off it,” Frenchie says. “You know Roach, why d’you think he’d do that?”
There’s the sound of boots scuffing over the deck. “I dunno, I just—”
"Yeah, nevermind that, I have some hot goss, actually," Frenchie says, his voice brimming with dark amusement.
Izzy's ears prickle and he listens more carefully. Frenchie usually brings interesting things to the table.
"I went down to the jam room earlier, hoping to well... jam, you know, but it was occupied by the Captain and Izzy."
The sound of a shrug. "They practice down there every night, don't they?" Pete asks.
"Sure, but I thought they'd finished, because it was all quiet and stuff, but when I peeked in—" Frenchie's voice trails off, a theatrical pause. Izzy rolls his eyes. "—they were on the floor. On top of each other. And get this—they're going on a date tomorrow.”
Izzy scoffs. A date, what a ridiculous idea. Izzy is the last person in the world Stede Bonnet would want to go on a date with. Just because Stede touches him all the time doesn't mean that he's in any way romantically interested. He's just being friendly.
The fact that Frenchie saw Stede on top of him is unfortunate, but there's a perfectly innocent explanation for that as well. Tomorrow, everyone will see that Stede hasn’t planned a date. They’ll recognize that the two of them were only on the floor together because the sparring practice got a little intense, rather than the sexual interpretation which all of their perverted minds have immediately latched onto. If he needs to dissuade those rumors to make the crew respect him, Izzy will, but he'll give it time. Surely they'll figure it out on their own, first.
"I have to give it to the little guy. He's done a great job attracting Captain's attention. He spent forever with me, swanning in and out of his wardrobe, trying to figure out what he should wear for his sparring practice tonight. I tried to get him to go a little sluttier, but it sounds like the practical route he opted for worked for him, I guess. Boring, but whatever floats their boat." Lucius appears over Pete's shoulder, apparently able to sniff out gossip like a bloodhound.
Izzy can't help but be impressed. If only Lucius gave half that much effort towards his ship duties. Izzy rolls his eyes. It figures that Stede wasted copious amounts of both of their time flouncing about.
Still... The thought of Stede in something that Lucius would consider sluttier makes Izzy pause. What does that mean, he wonders?
He'd stumbled across Lucius' sketchbook once and had seen drawings of Pete in a harness, the broad leather digging into his torso. It was Fang's piece, Izzy had seen him in the harness many times aboard the Queen Anne's Revenge. The thought of Fang and Pete sharing the item had made Izzy freeze on the spot, staring at the beautiful sketch for far too long. Is that what Lucius meant?
Izzy tries to imagine Stede in the piece. In Blackbeard's garb, Stede had looked ill at ease, but perhaps that had more to do with the stab wound than the outfit...
Still, Izzy can't quite picture it. A flash of Stede's calves, clad in high heels and thick white stockings comes to mind instead, a sheen spreading across the fabric as it hugs the muscle underneath. Izzy swallows, and tries to shake the image from his head, but the fantasy comes unbidden. Tight stockings, a pair of well-fitted trousers, hugging his shape, a loose, frilly shirt, hanging open and allowing Izzy a glimpse of—
Another group enters the sleeping quarters, and Archie's laughter jolts Izzy into awareness again.
Fuck. Arousal makes him shift. He shouldn't be having these thoughts. They're not his to have. Not about Stede, who doesn't know about them, and if he did, would want nothing to do with them.
Izzy slinks away into the darkness, his face flushed, his loins hot, and the sound of laughter echoes behind him.
He manages to hold off on pleasuring himself to the thought of Stede, but it's a near thing. The next day, he feels awkward despite the fact that he had resisted the night before. Even knowing that the temptation exists is enough to make him feel more uncomfortable every time Stede approaches him.
Though he makes multiple attempts to bring up the touch issue, the words stick in his throat every time. He can't make himself lie and say he wants Stede to stop, despite knowing that it’ll be the best course of action.
Unfortunately, without Izzy voicing his protests, Stede only seems inclined to touch him more, a gentle touch to the back of Izzy’s neck, a graze of warm fingers as he pushes Izzy’s hair back into place—it generates a cycle where the more Izzy is touched, the less he's able to say anything.
By that night, he feels like a pile of mush, ready to melt at the slightest touch. The chime in port rings five bells, and he heads to meet Stede, dreading the fact that he is more than likely to make a fool of himself throughout the course of the night. Perhaps Izzy's foolish bumbling about will be enough to deter Stede from trying anything like this again.
He can hear Stede's voice from the shore, and Izzy swallows before disembarking from the Revenge.
'Wear something nice,' Stede had told him, the bastard. He knows full well that this outfit is what Izzy has. He'd spent a good half hour rummaging through the chest of fabrics in the hold, hoping to find something, anything that might suit Stede's definition of nice. He'd been unsuccessful, and when Stede turns to watch him descend to the gangway, awkwardness makes Izzy's palms warm.
Fuck's sake, why is he so nervous? It's not like it's actually a date, despite the chattering he'd overheard the night before, despite the giggles and snickers that have followed him around all day.
"Mr. Hands!" Stede chirps as a greeting, and beside him Frenchie clears his throat.
"I'll just uh, leave the two of you to it then," he says and stumbles over a coil of rope, almost falling into the harbour.
"You alright there, Frenchie?" Stede calls after him, but Frenchie is already gone.
Izzy ignores him, far too focused on Stede to pay attention to anything else.
Stede. Who's dressed to the nines, in impractical lace and frills and—Izzy inhales, a deliberate, measured inhale—stockinged legs.
"Huh," Stede says, looking after Frenchie. "I wonder what that was about.”
"He thinks this is a date." The truth blurts from Izzy's lips before he can stop it. His thoughts are too scrambled from the sight of the stockings to come up with an excuse or a lie for Frenchie's behavior. He wants to bite down and catch the words on his teeth, but he's too slow, so he simply ends up offering Stede some strange bastardization of a smile.
"Well he—wait. Why did you say it like that? Do you not think this is a date?" Izzy makes himself look up from Stede's legs to check his expression, finding it, surprisingly, devastated.
The wide eyes and drawn eyebrows make something tighten in Izzy’s chest, and he straightens his back. "Of course I do. Just doesn't feel like one when I couldn't dress up like you asked." Izzy lies through his teeth. He won't allow the truth to escape again, not when it puts that cataclysmic look on Stede's face.
Though there is still some skepticism shining on Stede's eyes, he steps forward, taking Izzy by the hand and leaning down to kiss his knuckles. Izzy sucks in a breath that feels almost like a sob, though he luckily isn't crying. That would be fucking mortifying.
It's a joke. A trick, something to make Izzy feel at ease. Izzy's throat is burning as he feels Stede's lips on his knuckles. It's funny; he'd thought Stede better than this. To use Izzy as a stand-in for someone else, for Ed feels akin to a knife twisting in his gut.
He doesn't draw away. He lets Stede finish the motion and when he rises again, there's a calm steeliness to Izzy's posture. He has spent years perfecting it. He can power through this, cruelty or not.
Stede seems a bit more convinced of Izzy's lie, and he offers Izzy an arm. After a moment's hesitation, Izzy takes it, looping his own arm into Stede's, letting himself be dragged off towards the bustling town.
It feels... nice, despite the strangeness, despite the way Izzy's chest feels rend into pieces. Izzy's hand is resting on Stede's wrist, and the lace is thick and textured under his fingers, a stark contrast to the softness of Stede's skin when Izzy's fingers brush against the back of Stede's hand.
"I asked around a bit, and there's an absolutely lovely little restaurant just down this road," Stede chatters as they stroll away from the Revenge.
Izzy casts a glance behind them, and sees a few familiar faces poking out from the boxes on the loading ramp. He turns away, trying to focus on Stede's words.
"They have proper glassware, and one lady recommended the fowl, apparently they make a sauce here which is to die for." Stede halts, his eye caught by a pair of shoes in a window exhibition. "Oh, those are beautiful, don't you think, Mr Hands?"
Izzy doesn't have a reply. They look like shoes, to him, and impractical ones. "I don’t—"
Stede natters on without noticing Izzy's hesitance. "Perhaps we should go on a shopping trip tomorrow, hmm? Get you a fancy outfit for our dates?" Stede's voice breaks a bit at the end, and Izzy frowns.
Dates? Plural? Does Stede intend to keep up this charade?
This time Stede does notice, and his voice is a bit weaker. “But one thing at a time, perhaps.”
Resentment is a visceral feeling, coiling in Izzy’s gut and reaching out to spread through his whole body. Stede’s callous behavior using Izzy, caring about him as a stand-in for Ed rather than as himself, is unfair, yet Izzy still can't find it in himself to turn that resentment to anger. He feels guilt, instead, unable to stand the sight of Stede’s upset. "It might be tight, going on a shopping trip tomorrow after dealing with all of the inventory logs, but we could make it work if you're serious," he says, despite himself.
The way Stede lights up seems incredibly reminiscent of the flowers he loves so much, stretching towards the sun's rays to more easily share their beauty. Not that Stede is beautiful. But with all of his fabric and lace and pomp and circumstance, not to mention the stockings, he certainly seems like some pretty thing ripe for the picking. Izzy shakes himself. "Fab!” Stede exclaims. “I can assist with the inventory if you need. The books are something I'm actually familiar with, though I appreciate you taking them over."
Stede's books had been passable when Izzy first became his first mate. He had assumed that the Spriggs boy had been the one doing them before, and Lucius had never corrected him when he voiced that assumption. Him taking credit for Bonnet's work is true to everything Izzy knows about the boy though, so Izzy believes Stede’s words despite how much the revelation catches him off guard.
"If you'd like to help, that would be fine." Izzy hates working with other people on tasks he can handle by himself. He's not sure why he is agreeing, especially when it will mean more time spent with Stede. He should be furious about everything happening, but the anger simply won't remain at the forefront of his mind.
Not when Stede is by his side, already pulling him away from the window, his closeness alone making Izzy's frown turn into a small smile.
"Ah, here," Stede says, and stops outside of a small establishment. He puffs out his chest and enters with confidence, leaving Izzy to trail after him. "Stede Bonnet, the Gentleman Pirate," he tells the girl at the front. "Table for two, if you please. By the window."
The girl raises an eyebrow, and Izzy can help but chuckle. Stede certainly knows how to make an impression. "Sure, right this way, sir," she says and leads them to a small booth near the window.
"Thank you, dear," Stede says. His tone is similar to how he’d spoken the first few times Izzy’d met him, and it’s setting Izzy’s teeth on edge. "Oh, and two menu cards—I think our table hasn’t been set fully."
"Yeah, uh," the girl says with a frown. "We don't have those. We have duck with a mango glaze, and mango juice."
Stede's face falls. "Oh! Really? How curious, I was led to believe that this was the finest establishment in the whole of the port? I thought you’d have fowl or other game, not just duck." The incredulity in Stede's voice is crossing into rude, even if not intentionally so, and Izzy leans forward. He's seen men thrown out of shoddier places for less in different ports.
The girl cocks her head, a small smile on her face. "It is the finest establishment in port." She turns her attention to Izzy, and he's relieved to see the mirth sparkling in her eyes.
"Two of the duck, and two of the juice, then," Izzy says with a snort. "If you have any fancy cutlery, he'd appreciate it."
She winks. "Certainly, sir," she says with a half-hearted salute, and turns on her heel.
Stede flushes, clearly caught off guard by things not going to plan.
"Sometimes fancy means no options, you know. I hope you like duck." Izzy deserves to tease, just a little bit, for Stede being so rude to the server.
Izzy expects Stede to be pouting, but instead, his date is looking at him appreciatively. "You handled that admirably, Israel. I apologize for my rudeness, and I'll apologize to our server when she returns, of course, but I simply want today to be perfect. It took you long enough to accept one of my date offers, after all."
Struck dumb is the only way Izzy can describe how he feels. He knew earlier that Stede must be trying to pull one over on him, but Stede seems so sincere in his belief that he's asked Izzy on a date before, even though Izzy knows for a fact that has never happened. "Bonnet, when the fuck have you asked me on a date before this?"
Stede's jaw drops, staring at Izzy as if he can't believe the question he's just been asked.
"I—what?" he exclaims, and his brows crease. "Hundreds of times! Or, well, at least a dozen!"
Izzy scoffs, shaking his head. "You're delusional,” he says, to himself mostly. “Fuck, one mad captain wasn't enough?"
Stede reaches for Izzy's hand, and it's a close thing, but Izzy doesn't flinch away. Stede's hand is warm and strong around his wrist. "I did! Don't you remember, just the other day after story-time?"
Izzy frowns, thinking back. "What, when you were nattering on about the cake that Roach made you?"
"Yes! I was inviting you over for a night-cap!"
"That's not—"
"And before that, I had a whole thing planned with a candlelit dinner in the Cabin, Roach made us a roast and everything, and you refused me outright!"
None of this sounds familiar to Izzy. "I don't remember that," he says, and deep furrows are appearing on Stede's brow. Izzy pulls his hand from Stede's grasp. "It doesn't matter. I'm here now," he says, shoving down the feeling of his stomach flipping. If Stede is set on this being a date, so be it.
Just as Stede opens his mouth to say something else, the girl arrives with two servings. "I couldn't find any fancy cutlery, sorry," she says, a smile in her voice as she lays out the simple place-setting. "Enjoy!"
They eat in silence. Izzy thinks that the food is good, but he can't quite taste it, can't quite pay attention to the tender meat, the sweet glaze. Not when Stede isn't meeting his eyes, cutting his food into bite-sized pieces with a degree of attention that's wholly unlike him.
It tears at something inside of Izzy.
"Why do you want this to be a date?" Izzy asks finally, when the silence grows too heavy. The words are dragged out, and he's not sure it's the right question, but he needs to know, suddenly.
"Izzy, surely you must realize..." Stede looks as if he's steeling himself for something, like he thinks that Izzy is about to destroy the very fabric of his being. "I want you.”