*

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.

Izzy tries to stand as soon as Roach and Frenchie set the pallet down on the table.

"Woah, little man," Roach says, hands hovering above Izzy's shoulders, not touching him. Izzy slumps back down rather than sitting up further.

"Just wanna wash," he mutters, turning his head away. Roach looks him up and down, keeping his face carefully blank as he takes in the dried blood on Izzy's face--a nosebleed, judging from the way it coats his beard and chin.

The bridge of his nose is bruised, maybe fractured, but not Roach's most immediate concern. There's a cut on Izzy's forehead too, another on his cheekbone, probably from a ring. It's hard to tell under the layers of grime and blood, but Izzy's face is covered in bruises, yellow to green to blue to purple, one eye still swelling. It'll be shut by tomorrow. Roach holds up two fingers

"How many, dizzy Izzy?" he says, regretting it instantly. Izzy grimaces

He glances up, meeting Roach's gaze for just an instant before focusing on his fingers. He's chewing his lips, Roach notices--it's not something he's seen Izzy do before, though of course, he hasn't paid that much attention.

"Izzy," he says again, business like, "how many fingers?"

"Two," Izzy mutters, looking away again. "Blurry, though. Or shiny maybe. Everything feels weird. I think I might be dying."

Behind Roach, Jim swears. Roach doesn't blink.

"What do you feel?" he asks instead. Izzy blinks, dazed.

"I feel... I feel sad," he says. Roach and Frenchie glance at each other, eyes wide. "I'm so fucking lonely all the time. I feel like nobody wants me here. I don't know why you came for me. Edward didn't want to. You should have just left me there, I'd be dead by now and then maybe things wouldn't hurt so fucking much."

Roach opens his mouth, shuts it again

"That's... Not quite what I meant."

Izzy turns his face away, covering it with his hands.

"But that's good!" Roach says encouragingly, "It helps. Can you tell me how your body feels? Where does it hurt?"

For a moment he thinks Izzy won't answer. Izzy covers his mouth with his hands, tense. He sucks in a breath and speaks again in that same expressionless tone.

"My wrists hurt, and my ankles. My nose might be broken, and my jaw. He punched me a few times when I wouldn't open my mouth."

"My ass and my thighs feel like they're on fire. My cunt's the worst of it, I think he fucking tore something. I feel like I'm going to throw up."

With no further ceremony, Izzy turns to the side, puking bile onto the floorboards. He wretches, spits. He's talking again before Roach can say anything.

"I fucking hate this. I can't stop talking, I don't even know what I'm fucking saying half the time, and it's pointless. You don't care. Why should you?"

"Hey, come on, man," Frenchie says quietly, hurt. Izzy shakes his head, still not looking at any of them.

"Please stop," he says. "Stop asking me things. Stop talking to me. Stop fucking looking at me. Just bring me a bucket and let me fucking wash."

Roach sucks his teeth, sharing a look with Jim. They shake their head, a minute gesture. Roach sighs. A proper examination will have to wait.

"Everybody out," Jim says firmly. "Let's draw Izzy a bath."

*

Izzy lies on the pallet for a moment after they leave. He breathes in deeply, trying to find the stable, solid centre of himself--he spent so fucking long building it, learning to breathe deep enough that something inside his chest would just... settle. He can't find it now. He tries again. He pushes all the air out of his lungs, pausing for a moment, waiting until his chest starts to spasm and his vision starts to dance before breathing in again.

He pushes himself up to sitting, muscles screaming at the motion. He swings his legs over the side of the table, gingerly lowering his feet to the ground. His legs feel unsteady and he holds on to the table for a moment, catching his breath. Then, with more determination than confidence, he forces himself to stand up straight. He moves with faltering steps to the larder, holding onto the doorframe as he looks around for...

There. He grabs an empty pot.

Waste of fresh water--the thought moves across the surface of his mind like an eddy, automatic and irrelevant. He pulls the cover off the barrel, dips the pot into cool, clear water. He tries not to touch it with his hands--no need to befoul the barrel

He crouches next to it. His hands shake as he raises a palmful of water to his face. He does it again, and again, water flowing down his neck to his chest. He closes his eyes, breath hitching as he weeps