Work Text:
Izzy’s only 98% positive this raid is for his birthday. But he is still 98% positive this raid is, in fact, for his birthday.
He’s missing a leg, not his fucking ears.
He’s heard the whispers from the crew, from Edward and Stede themselves as they plot late into the night. Candles burned down to lumps and bumps of wax; Roach making absurdly large pots of coffee for the crew and Captains come morning. The way chatter dies down when he enters, his eyes scanning awkward and nervous faces.
It would all be suspicious on its own, if Bonnet wasn’t spending his time fucking fawning over Izzy like a cabin boy at sea for the first time. He’s overly eager to indulge Izzy’s every possible want, going so far as to offer to dock at port for a good cigar if he fucking wanted. And he won’t shut the fuck up about it being a ‘good time of year’ for a ‘pirating’. Whatever the fuck that means.
Bonnet’s not great at keeping secrets, especially when they excite him.
Izzy’s not great at leaving secrets well enough alone, especially when it involves his Captains.
Rain threatens to pour, this first day of September that always feels like August and the heavy heat of summer will never ease. The thick air hangs heavy around them, oppressive and domineering as thunder rumbles. A hark of anticipation, the way clouds roll in as The Revenge parts waves as it goes. Heavy and dark with their load of rain, Izzy can’t see how today is anything but a fucking shit show.
The Dutch merchant vessel isn’t large, but it also doesn’t have the guns that The Revenge has. They manage to wound her enough that they take her deck in a flash of cannon fire, Wee John cheering and Roach whooping from where he sits in the crows nest, physically chucking cannon balls at the other ship. Jim and Archie bash their way through the opening Roach’s random deployments give them, and Oluwande finishes off the tie to keep the two ships together.
Izzy’s own blade is out, cutting down anyone who so much as looks at him wrong. Ed’s swinging from the ropes, the winds picking up and making it hard for him to pick his landing place. Izzy swipes at an eager crewman, the man’s eyes gawking at Edward and Bonnet’s grace. He doesn’t blame him, exactly; Izzy’s sure he’s doing the same.
Behind him, he can hear Frenchie hoist a cheer as the crew heave casks up from below the deck. Someone, Jim maybe, ducks to avoid gunfire. It hits the wooden cask instead, a fine brandy spilling all over the decking. Amber liquid looks almost clear on the golden brown of the decking, but the smell of alcohol is strong and Edward’s always convinced they keep gunpowder in the bottoms of those things.
Izzy calls a ceasefire; if he knows one thing it’s that their whole company will go up in flames should the brandy meet with an errant spark. No one seems to listen on deck, the goings on too exciting for anyone to stop. Frenchie and Oluwande scramble to plug up the hole, not wanting to waste any.
Wee John hollers back, but Roach continues to toss cannon balls and Frenchie continues to wave his arms and distract any remaining crewman. Stede, wrapped up in his enjoyment of it all, flashes Izzy a thumbs up. He rolls his eyes, his boot splashing as he stalks back up to the helm where Edward’s landed.
“Do you fuckers yield?” Izzy demands, his blade hoisted high in the air for the entire deck’s attention.
Behind him, Ed fires a shot into the air for added effect. Bonnet’s in the process of pilfering a very nice burgundy coat with golden epaulets from a sluggishly bleeding man. Despite his best efforts, he’s not exactly the center of attention. Behind him, he hears Ed’s breathless chuckle.
“Guess not, Iz.”
Someone tells him to go fuck his cunt on the mizzenmast, which is creative if Izzy’s being honest. It earns a chuckle from a few of the merchant’s crew, but Stede frowns like he’s tasted something off and scowls at them.
“Do you mind ?” He implores. “It’s his birth-“
Too many things happen at once.
Firstly, Izzy turns to snap at Stede. This shitfuck vessel doesn’t need to know his fucking birthdate. It’d been a mistake, he thinks, to allow Edward tell Bonnet. Not that Edward would have listened if he had denied him.
Secondly, someone rushes forward. Izzy thinks they aim their bayonet toward Edward, but Edward starts to scream at the same time and that doesn’t track with how Ed usually reacts when he’s been run through.
Thirdly, a bright, hot, sharp pain sears through Izzy’s entire body. He doesn’t even realize he’s stumbling backward until Edward’s tattooed arm surrounds him, keeping the blade he now sees sticking out of his gut firmly in place.
Everyone starts screaming at once, a cacophonous racket that makes Izzy’s head swim and his vision blur. He wants, badly, to tell Bonnet to his terrified face that this was a shit fucking birthday. That he’d have done perfectly well to just ignore the day entirely and, instead, acted like he’d never been actually born.
But he doesn’t actually get to say anything.
Because when he opens his mouth, he spits up blood and promptly falls very fucking unconscious.
—
It’s warm, at some point, a hazy somewhere that filters through his consciousness and reminds him that he’ll have to meet his maker at some point. Someone, a rich, gentle voice, asks him if he’s in pain. He doesn’t know if he responds, but he does know the bitter taste of laudanum when the drops hit his tongue.
“It’s alright, love.” The voice coos, and Izzy should recognize it. He knows he should, as he should recognize the ice chilled hand that skims his hair from his forehead. The lips that press at his hairline, cool and dry and comforting.
It’s a stupid place for a kiss.
Somewhere to his left, someone barks a laugh. Voices pick up in earnest, a bickering that makes Izzy think of himself and Edward, or himself and Bonnet.
Izzy goes back under.
—
He wakes, unfortunately, pressed tightly between what feels like two fucking furnaces. A blanket, actually at least four,, are pulled tightly around him and make any escape impossible. The idea of opening his eyes is, frankly, a fate worse than death. Even if he can feel the sweat dripping down his face, the thick feeling over his whole body as he wonders how many days it’s been since he last awoke. What he wouldn’t give to lay in a lukewarm tub right now.
“He’s up.” Edward stages whispers, from the right side of him.
“He’s still sleeping, let him rest.” Bonnet whispers back, and warm hands adjust his blankets from the left.
“Nah, mate. All in his breathin’. Once he stops that weird nose thing he’s up.”
“F’ck you.” Izzy mumbles, trying to turn away from Edward.
Bonnet’s warm hands stop him, his worried face suddenly all Izzy can see in his immediate eyesight. He bullies Izzy back into laying down, even if he’s only failed to roll over once.
“Israel, you really mustn’t move. You’ve barely made it through the fevers, I’d rather not have to call Roach in for an encore of his surgical expertise.”
Uncharacteristically, Edward is silent and still at his side. He watches Izzy with a sort of narrowed gaze, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle that’s pieces are all nearly the same color. Whatever he sees, it must upset him because he waves Stede off and turns away from him.
But he turns toward Izzy.
“Fuckin’ listen for once, yeah?” He mumbles, awkwardly adjusting the blankets and pillows while he avoids eye contact.
Izzy risks a glance at Bonnet, whose own expression seems pinched and awkward and nervous. He resigns himself to Edward’s fussing with a sigh, but Edward pauses in his movements and sits still.
“Listenin’.” Izzy grumbles, and he tries to stretch out. It pulls hard at the stitches in his side, and he barely gets the hiss of pain out before Edward is scrambling to push him back into place again. Bonnet joins the fray as well, both men trying to push him and pull him this way and that.
Stede chastises him for moving, Edward finishes fixing the pillows and watches his lovers’ movements as they continue to bicker. Izzy doesn’t want to be in the blankets anymore, despite Stede’s insistence that he’s actually covered in a cold sweat. Ed’s wide, dark brown eyes watch everything with an emotion Izzy finds hard to pinpoint.
“You’ll rip your stitches out.” Stede says, finally getting all but one blanket off and tossing them into the corner. Izzy’s worn himself out now, and he drops heavy back to the pillow Edward so carefully fluffed for him.
“Almost took Roach twice as long with how much he was blubberin’, too.” Ed says, but his voice is soft in a way that lets Izzy dream he was blubbering, too.
“Should-a just left-“
“And let you bleed out? Absolutely fucking not, Iz.” Edward snaps, but the heat doesn’t have the same level of intensity as he did as the Kraken.
All Izzy hears is a scared Edward, like when they were boys barely able to grow a beard. He wonders what Bonnet was like, at that age. All gangly limbs and cracking voices, too horny to see straight and too restless to stay out of trouble. He probably would have grated on Izzy’s every nerve, like he currently does.
“Too much Fuckin Fuss-“
“We weren’t going to let you die on your birthday , Israel.”
“Actually reviewed the contract, no dying at all.”
“Everyone dies.”
“Nope. Not you, mate. Read the fine print, Stede’s real good with legal jargon.” Ed says, but his actions aren’t careless and playful despite his tone.
He leans over him, over Stede, to reach uselessly for a carafe of water that someone has placed on the little table Bonnet sometimes uses when he’s in the bath. Stede takes pity and fills a glass, passing it to Ed who, in turn, tries to offer it to Izzy.
He tries to take it, but Ed bats his hands away and offers him the cup for a sip. Face red with embarrassment, Izzy obediently drinks as instructed.
He hasn’t realized how much his throat fucking hurt before, but the water is both a blessing and a curse. It’s a soothing balm to the scratchiness of his throat, but the act of swallowing entirely makes him involuntarily whine.
Ed pulls the cup back, patting awkwardly at his back as if to both comfort him and stop him from choking. It’s a welcome weight against Izzy’s reeling mind; too much seems out of focus right now.
“Wha’ppened?”
“Took a bayonet to the gut, caught your lung. You were all gasping for air, flopping around like a fucking fish. Had to put our hands over the hole just to get you to breathe.” Ed says, as Izzy flops into his general person for comfort.
He’s pleased to find he isn’t shoved away, not in the way he could expect. Stede, too, freely gives affection as he pushes Izzy’s hair from his face.
“Roach did have to shove a reed down your throat. Something about a lung and collapsing. Nasty business, I’m afraid. You wretched like anything when he had to pull it back up-“ Stede chatters on, filling the cup a second time and eventually getting up entirely to apparently scavenge for things.
He comes back with a large book on wildlife and fauna, a robe, and a tray of several delicately arranged meats and cheeses. He also has two glasses of wine for himself and Ed, but offers Izzy nothing in the way of alcohol.
“Not good to mix with laudanum.” Ed reasons, sympathetic in tone and gesture as he wipes Izzy’s forehead free of sweat.
“That was you?” Izzy has to cough, clear his throat, cough again to even get the words out. His throat feels like he’s swallowed a shark’s skin.
“Me, actually. Roach said I made an excellent nurse maid.” Stede says, proudly.
Izzy’s soon bundled into the robe, flopped back over onto Stede now so Edward can stretch his legs. Stede reads from the book aloud, pausing to encourage Izzy to try something or take a sip of water. Begrudgingly, the first mate allows the coddling, if only for his Captain’s benefit.
He allows it, at least, for an hour or so. Until he yawns, until his body complains about sitting up and his senses are both dull and far too sharp at the same time. Izzy closes his eyes against the brightness of the candlelit cabin.
“We’re glad you’re up, darling, but don’t avoid sleep on our account.” Stede whispers, pausing in his narration when Izzy yawns.
“Yeah, we can entertain ourselves. Just no fuckin’ dying.” Ed adds from across the room, looking through a stack of journals Izzy doesn’t recognize.
He finally plucks one from in the middle of the stack, pulling it out like that wooden stacking game Frenchie and Pete are so fucking fond of. He comes to crawl back into the bed, over the legs of his lovers, until he’s back in his window space to sprawl to his heart’s content.
“Anyway, wanna hear about this guy’s Fuckin’ Syphilis infection he got? He’s a fucking idiot; these are great.” Ed says, showing the personal journal of one of the crew of (presumably) the merchant vessel.
They bully Izzy back into the bed, Stede pressing a kiss to the top of his hairline again as Edward settles in to read aloud someone’s innermost thoughts.
And impossibly, Izzy is comfortable.