Hornigold nudges him with his boot, rolling him over to his back. He shakes his head, the movement exaggerated, everything a performance with him.

"I'm afraid I can't let disrespect like that stand, Israel," he says mournfully, as if he genuinely regrets whatever he's about to do. As if he wouldn't have found an excuse no matter what Izzy did. Just another fucking game. Izzy's breath speeds up, out of his control. Fear makes a hollow pit in his chest.

His eyes follow the motion as Hornigold's hands go to his belt. He still can't see the bastard's face, not properly, as if this didn't already feel like a fucking nightmare. Izzy wants to scream and scream and scream until he wakes up. Hornigold pulls the belt loose, wrapping one end around his fist. Izzy hears himself babbling again, can't fucking stop it, feels fucking sick with it.

"No, no, no, please, Ben, please, don't, I won't, please..."

Hornigold clicks his tongue, grabbing Izzy by the hair again, pulling him up to his knees

"Hush now, boy," Hornigold says firmly. "I know you haven't forgotten my rules. I won't have lax discipline on my ship."

Izzy whimpers as Hornigold drags him to a low wooden bench at the side of his cell, manhandling him until he's draped over it, ass in the air. He shudders at the feeling of exposure. Hornigold's fingers stroke over his ass, the slit of his cunt

Izzy's breath comes in short, panicked gasps, tears already falling. He doesn't try to fight them this time.

"I would ask you to count," Hornigold says coolly, "but I haven't decided how many I'll give you yet."

Izzy writhes, panicked, words pouring out of him again, pure fucking terror, "Wait, wait, please, Ben, please, don't--!"

The belt whistles through the air, cracking across the meat of Izzy's ass. He doesn't scream--he chokes, gasping for air.

By the time Hornigold stops, Izzy is crying silently, limp over the bench, nothing left in him but pain. He hardly even notices that it's over until Hornigold's hand strokes his back. He flinches away, the feeling of that gentleness worse than the pain of the beating.

"Shhh, little bird," Hornigold says indulgently, like he's speaking to a frightened pet. "There, now. All's forgiven."

Izzy hears Hornigold fumbling with his trousers again. He shudders.

"Please," he whispers, not even sure if it's loud enough to be heard, knowing it wouldn't matter if it was, still not able to stop himself from fucking begging, "please, no."

Hornigold's hand tightens on the back of his neck, holding him down, hard bench digging into his soft belly as Hornigold fucks into him again. Izzy whimpers quietly, the pain of it eclipsing everything else.

"There now, darling," Hornigold says as he fucks Izzy at a brutal pace.

"It's too bad you won't be much use when it comes to catching Teach, but no matter."

Hornigold grunts, coming in Izzy's cunt again, quickly this time, no surprise--a beating always got the old bastard worked up. He leans in close, stroking the hair out of Izzy's face.

"You're back where you belong."

*

It's a day and a half before the Swede spots a sail on the horizon. A murmur goes through the crew, all of them looking to their captain for orders.

It's a testament to the Revenge's speed. Stede wishes he had the time to feel smug about it. Everything feels so urgent, time moving too quickly. Ed still won't talk to him, won't tell him what he fears, why even the sound of Hornigold's name makes him shudder. Everyone on board seems to know something. Hushed conversations fall silent whenever Stede comes near. No one will tell him what they're afraid of.

"You... you don't think Izzy might be dead?"

Stede twists his hands together, watching Jim sharpen their knives. They glance up but don't meet his gaze, staring past him, towards the horizon where the Swede first spotted the sail.

"No," they say after a long moment. They turn back to their knives.

"Then... then what exactly is everyone afraid of?" Stede asks. He feels sick, though he couldn't say why. Jim just shakes their head

"Just, shut up about it, okay?" they say. "We're getting him back."

*

Hornigold is on top of him again, cock in his throat cutting off his air until black spots swim at the edges of his vision. They've been playing a new game. To Izzy it seems the same as every other fucking game Ben plays. Ben asks Izzy questions--when he doesn't like the answers, he hurts him.

"Admit it, little bird. You missed me, didn't you?"

"Fuck no."

Another backhanded blow, Hornigold spitting in his face, pinning him down, calling him a liar

Izzy can't help but grin. They both know he can't lie, not now. And then Hornigold's cock forcing its way past his lips, hands in his hair, demanding he keep his eyes open. Doesn't matter anyway--open or closed, he sees the same thing, those fucking eyes. He wants to gouge them out

Hornigold finishes, spending over Izzy's face. Predictable. Izzy holds fast to his contempt, the last lifeline he's got. There's a knock on the cell door. Hornigold startles

Now, that's interesting. Jeremiah looks nervous when he sticks his head around the door. Hornigold tucks himself away again, buttoning up his trousers and grimacing as Jeremiah whispers something to him. He spares barely a glance at Izzy, lip curling, displeased again. Izzy doesn't know what the fuck is happening, but he holds out little hope it'll do him any good.

"Dose him again," Hornigold says, and then he's gone, leaving Izzy alone with Jeremiah.

Jeremiah's eyes dart nervously. There's shouting now, what sounds like gunfire.

"Sounds like trouble," Izzy says, managing to imbue the words with a touch of insouciance. Jeremiah snarls at him.

"Shut the fuck up," he snaps, pulling Izzy's head back painfully. "You think you're safe just because you're the captain's toy?"

Safe. Safe? Izzy snorts, then giggles. Christ, this lad is exactly as stupid as he fucking looks isn't he? Jeremiah slaps him hard

And when Jeremiah pulls out a knife, he laughs harder still, tears spilling down his face, breath coming in short, desperate gasps. Fuck, it would have been nice to at least wash his fucking face one more time, but it won't matter when he's dead and the knife is at his throat and he waits for the bite of it.

Jeremiah makes a strange, strangled noise in the back of his throat. The knife slips from his fingers and god, no, Izzy could fucking scream.

He was almost out. He was so fucking close and now this stupid fucking shitstain twerp is dropping his knife because... because...

Jeremiah slumps to the side, blood bubbling on his lips, mouth working soundlessly as his punctured lung collapses. Jim steps out of the shadows, pulls their knife free from his back, wipes it on the sleeve of their coat. They blanch when they look down at Izzy.

"Mierda, viejo," they say. "You look like shit."

Jim moves quickly, cutting the ropes around Izzy's wrists and ankles. They reach out to help rub the feeling back into his limbs, pins and needles stabbing through his unused muscles, but Izzy flinches back. They raise their hands apologetically.

Izzy doesn't look them in the eye. He groans as he stretches for the first time in... fuck, how long has it been? He almost doesn't believe they're here, but it would be the first good dream he's had in years.

Beside him, Jeremiah wheezes out his last breaths, eyes wide. Izzy meets his terrified gaze, sees the light beginning to fade. He leans over and spits in his face again.

"We've gotta get a move on," Jim says, "our distraction has, uh, a time limit."

Izzy scrunches his nose, confused

"Distraction?" he says, and then with sudden clarity. "Fucking Bonnet"

Jim shrugs eloquently

"Honestly it's pretty good for one of his plans. Worked so far, didn't it?"

Izzy pulls his trousers up gingerly. The laces are frayed and broken--he'll replace them. He focuses on that as he pushes himself to his feet. Jim doesn't try to touch him again, but he feels them holding back, wanting to reach out, help him.

"I don't want to be fucking touched," he mutters, and Christ, he's almost used to that, his thoughts turning to speech whether he wants them to or not. Jim doesn't argue. They shepherd him through dark hallways.

Finally they come to an open porthole at the end of a corridor. Jim nods towards it.

"If you can't make it through on your own, I'll have to push you."

Izzy shakes his head. The thought of hands on his body right now makes him feel ill.

"I'll make it."

He places his hands on the porthole, preparing to push himself up and out, when suddenly, from above, he hears Hornigold shouting orders, a commotion as his crew rush to follow them. Izzy's head spins

"Hey, viejo, watch out!"

It's the last thing he hears before the wood floor rushes up to meet him, and his vision goes black.

Stede doesn't know what he's expecting--perhaps Izzy scrambling through the window, cursing about everything Stede's done wrong, demanding to know what the hell took so long. That at least he might have been prepared for. Arguing with Izzy has always come naturally.

What he's not expecting is his first mate's limp body, propelled through the porthole by Jim, cursing in vivid Spanish.

"Get his fucking head!" they shout. Stede reaches out automatically.

Frenchie waves to another nearby dinghy, signalling Wee John to let loose an unearthly wail, a signal to let the others know that the raid is over. Jim grips the oars, already rowing grimly. Izzy shivers in his sleep, turning his head away when Stede raises a hand to his cheek.

"Hey," Jim barks. Stede jumps, guilty. "He doesn't want to be touched"

Stede flaps his hands uselessly. Izzy's settled against his chest, tense even in sleep. Jim glares at him

"I... I don't want to disturb him," he says, hands raised. Jim shakes their head. Stede has a feeling that whatever they're thinking, it's not about him holding Izzy in his lap. They're quiet, face drawn. Frenchie sits with his arms around his knees, eyes wide, watching Izzy. Stede clears his throat

"I..." he starts, then hesitates, formulating a question. "What did they do to him?"

"That's not for me to say."

They row the rest of the way in silence.

Izzy begins to stir as they approach the Revenge. Stede tries to move slowly, not wanting to startle the man. For a moment he thinks its worked, thinks Izzy is perhaps drifting back towards much needed rest.

And then Izzy screams. His hands move, scrabbling weakly at Stede's chest as he tries to push himself away. His voice comes out in a moan, strangely toneless. It doesn't sound like him.

"Please don't, please not again, Ben, please--"

"Izzy!"

Stede's voice comes out sharper than he intends, panic making him shrill. He wraps his hands loosely around Izzy's wrists, trying to comfort him, noticing the deep purple bruising that circle them under all the blood and...

Izzy sobs. Great, racking sobs, painful-sounding, wrenched out of his chest. He seems only half aware of his surroundings, body limp, no longer struggling. Horrifying as it had been, Stede thinks he preferred the struggling.

"Let go of his fucking wrists."

Jim's voice is quiet, deceptively calm. Stede releases Izzy's wrists instantly, then gasps as Izzy slumps down into the bottom of the dinghy, arms wrapped around himself as he cries.

"Izzy," Stede says, softly this time, "Izzy, I'm so sorry."

Izzy sucks in a lungful of air and glares up at Stede, eyes red, tears still streaming down his face.

"Of course it's fucking you," he says, sounding more despairing than hateful

"I knew he wouldn't come. I knew it. And I was fucking glad of it. I was."

Another sob wracks his body as he shivers in the bottom of the dinghy. Jim gives Stede a threatening look, then for clarity's sake draws one finger across their throat.

"I'm going up to get help," they say flatly. "You touch him before I get back, I gut you like a fish, entiendes?"

Stede gulps, eyes wide, and nods. Jim climbs the ladder nimbly, their grace enviable as always.

Frenchie stays behind. He crouches nearby, eyes averted as he tries to respect Izzy's privacy. He seems as much at a loss as Stede feels. Izzy's sobs finally quiet, his breath still coming in little hiccupping gasps. He shivers and Stede crouches beside him, moving as slow as he can.

"Izzy?" he says, tentative. "I'm afraid you're getting cold. I'm just... I'm just going to drape my coat over you, if that's alright."

Izzy doesn't look at him this time.

"Don't want your fuckin' coat," Izzy says, again toneless, lacking that certain... je ne sais quoi Stede has come to expect from his-- well, Ed's-- first mate. "Don't want anything from you. Just want a wash. And not to be touched."

Stede nods, hands open, trying to appear unthreatening. Well, to hear Izzy talk before this you'd certainly think he'd have no trouble there. Stede swallows, looking down at Izzy, so small in the bottom of the boat.

He wants that Izzy back, the one who just days ago called him "about as threatening as a piss-drunk molly snoring in the corner of a fucking brothel on Sunday morning." He doesn't know what to do for this one. His hands flex uselessly. Izzy's teeth chatter audibly. It seems like an eternity passes before Jim hops down into the dinghy again, guiding a pallet behind them. They glare at Stede, then turn to Frenchie.

"He try anything stupid?" they ask.

Frenchie shakes his head.

"Good as gold," he says. He still doesn't look at Izzy. Jim crouches down beside him.

"Hey, viejo," they say, matter-of-fact, but not unkind. "We've gotta get you up to the ship. If you can't get yourself up, I'm gonna have to help you. I'm gonna let you try first though, okay?"

It seems to Stede like a perfectly absurd thing to ask of the man, but Izzy nods his head, pushing himself back up to sit. Jim gives him space.

Slowly, painfully slowly, Izzy crawls to the pallet. Stede moves forward once, unable to resist the urge to help, to do something. He stops dead with Jim's dagger pricking into the side of his throat.

"Nothing personal, captain," they say. "But he needs to do this"

Finally, Izzy drags himself onto the pallet. He collapses as soon as his weight is on it, breathing like he's just run a marathon. Stede feels much the same way, energy draining out of him.

"Good to go?" Jim keeps their eyes on Izzy's face. He looks unfocused, one eye swollen nearly shut.

"Always liked you, you know," he says. "Not as useless as the others. Remind me of me when I was younger. If I'd been..."

Izzy trails off, forehead creasing as he searches for the words.

"If I'd been better," he concludes. Jim grimaces.

"Haul him up!" they shout and the pallet begins to rise. Jim climbs alongside it, steadying it as best they can.