There had been no complaint when Jim insisted they drill the plan again and again until they were picture perfect.

Still, it hadn't been hitch-free. The mist they counted on to distract and alarm Hornigold's crew did no such thing. They became sharper, more focused. The unearthly wailing Stede's crew let loose, surrounding Hornigold's ship in what Stede had referred to, rather glibly in hindsight, as a fog of eldritch horror, was similarly ineffective.

It did, however, very vividly demonstrate exactly how badly Stede had underestimated this foe.

He presses his palms into his eyes, rubbing firmly

And then, of course, Edward's reaction. That should have told him something. He tried to get Ed to talk to him, to tell him what he was so afraid of. Izzy was his first mate, after all, had been for Stede still doesn't know how long. Ed wouldn't say a word about it. Wouldn't say a word about anything, really

When Stede came to tell him they were going to get Izzy, he didn't even respond. Not a huff or a sigh, nothing to so much as show that Ed heard him.

Stede sighs, dragging his hands down his face. Some part of him still hopes he's misunderstanding what Izzy said to him. After all, he didn't directly say that Hornigold had… misused him. Did he? Stede can't remember Izzy's exact words and that makes his stomach twist. He doesn't want it to be true.

And then there's the thing Stede very resolutely has not been thinking of. It simply wouldn't do. It certainly has no appeal whatsoever under the current circumstances.

"You stop it," Stede says raising a finger and glaring at his own groin. His cock gives another traitorous twitch. "Absolutely not! That would be inappropriate at the best of times, and this is very fucking far from the best of times!"

Absolutely unchastened, his cock hardens further.

God.

I could suck your dick, if you wanted. If he wanted! As if that hasn't been one of his go to fantasies since their first encounter. His mind replays the way Izzy walked towards him, the way his hips swished from side to side. The confidence as he drew his sword, cutting Stede's shirt to ribbons without drawing a single drop off blood. Stede groans, gripping himself through his trousers. The heat of his cock, fully hard, radiates through the fabric

He hisses, throwing his head back as he squeezes it. He remembers the rush of blood in his veins when he turned the tables on Izzy, the thrill of having a dangerous man at his mercy

"Fuck," Stede mutters. He unbuttons his trousers, hating himself. His cock springs free, flushed with blood, clear liquid beading at the tip. He spits in his hand—it feels filthy, wrong. His prick throbs, almost painful. He takes himself in hand, squeezing the base, tugging

His hand slides roughly along the length and rolls over the head, gathering the moisture there, smoothing the glide. "Oh, fuck, Izzy…"

He imagines himself at the end of Izzy's sword again, the little smirk on his face as he holds Stede at his mercy. He remembers the feel of his knife presses to Izzy's cheek, the little twitch that Izzy couldn't quite stop, and god help him, how many times has he dreamed of that moment. Izzy asked him his demands.

How many times has he imagined sweeping Izzy into his arms, like the swashbuckling hero of a novel? Using his knife to cut the buttons off Izzy's vest one by one, exposing the firm, muscular flesh of his chest, ordering Izzy to his knees and…

"Oh god," Stede gasps, cock spurting over his hand, staining the fabric of his trousers. He groans, holding on tight for a moment, and then his head falls back against the pile of clothing behind him. "Fuck."

He grabs a piece of lace that he judges rumpled beyond repair, dabbing ineffectively at the mess. He throws his other arm over his face, shame bubbling up in the pit of his belly.

What kind of man is he to even think of it?

What kind of man is he, that he's not sure he can resist the temptation?

*

The bathroom is fragrant, steaming water making the air soft and humid. The scent of cedar and lime fills Izzy's lungs and he sucks in a deep breath, the deepest he's managed since... He shakes his head. Jim steps back, dropping the hand still on Izzy's shoulder.

"I'll, uh, give you some privacy," they say, turning away. Izzy closes his eyes, swallowing his pride.

"Wait. I... I might need some help," he says. The words taste like ash on his tongue.

Jim nods, face neutral. Izzy's head feels full of cotton balls--he speaks whether he wants to or not.

"Don't think I can get these off on my own," he says, gesturing to his trousers. "Not sure I could get into the tub without cracking my head open. Honestly if I thought it'd just kill me I wouldn't say anything, but I knew a man once, fell from the mizzenmast, cracked his head open. Survived, but he never spoke again. Just looked lost all the time."

"That scares me. I'm not afraid of dying, not really. But losing myself? Living like a fuckin' shell, just a body to eat and shit and piss until someone puts me out of my fuckin' misery?" He shudders. "Fuck, anyway, just... just help me get my fuckin' trousers off, alright?"

Jim laughs, guiding Izzy to sit on a stool next to the tub

"You're fucking weird, viejo, you know that?" they say. They unlace his boots, slip them off his feet and set them aside

Izzy gingerly unbuttons his vest and Jim helps him slip it off over his shoulders. His muscles, locked and knotted after being tied behind his back for however long, scream in protest. He winces

"Hey," Jim says quietly. "Just let me, okay?"

They fold the vest carefully, laying it aside. Izzy looks away as they unbutton his shirt, stained with blood and sweat and everything else. They don't comment, don't ask questions. They place it on top of his vest

Izzy doesn't look down. He doesn't want to know how he looks. He watches Jim's face as they take it in, deliberately blank.

"That bad, eh?" he asks. They just shake their head. Their hands move to the waistband of his trousers. Izzy draws in a shaky breath.

"Okay?" they ask, looking up at him. Izzy shrugs, biting his lips as he tries not to speak. Jim waits patiently.

"I don't know," he says finally. Their expression doesn't change. "It's not you."

"But if I don't manage it, I'll just end up laid here, stuck, and I can't stand it. I can still feel him on my skin and I want to scrub until I can't feel anything at all and..."

"Hey," Jim says and Izzy stops, breathing hard. "Just let me help, okay?"

Izzy looks down at them for a long moment.

"Okay," he whispers at last. Jim nods. Slowly and with great care, they pull his trousers down over his hips and down his thighs. Their face is blank.

They can't help the quiet hiss that escapes them at the blood and mess between Izzy's legs. They fold the trousers as carefully as everything else, placing them next to the little pile of Izzy's clothes. The warm air feels strange on his skin, almost too gentle.

"Come on," Jim says, extending a hand to him again. "Let's get you clean."

Izzy takes their hand letting them steady him as he stands. They guide his hand to their shoulder for stability.

With their hands on his waist, he steps gingerly into the bath. He groans as he slowly lowers himself into the warm water, wincing a little as it stings little cuts and sets his bruises throbbing. He leans back, sinking in up to his neck. Jim picks up a washcloth, dipping it into the bath water, then holds it up.

"May I?" they ask. Izzy nods, closing his eyes. He sighs softly as they begin to wash his face.

Jim doesn't speak, hopes their silence will help guard Izzy's--whatever's been done to him, whatever he was given on board that ship, robbing him of his privacy, his self-determination... The thought of it makes them sick.

Each pass of the cloth sweeps away dirt and grime, leaving only the flesh beneath, bruised and bloody and in some places even burnt. They don't let themself linger on any one part. They feel how Izzy tenses if they try to slow.

"Sorry," Jim mutters. Their voice sounds loud in the little space. They pause as the cloth reaches Izzy's belly. "Listen, I don't have to..."

"Please." Izzy's voice is tense, his eyes still shut. He turns his face away from them as he speaks. "I can't do it myself. I just. I want him off me, alright? So just fuckin' do it. All of it."

Jim nods, feeling like an idiot, knowing Izzy can't see them. Methodical. Efficient. Bits of scab flake into the water

The cooling bath water turns cloudy, then murky. Jim helps Izzy out, wraps him in a towel and sitting him on a stool behind a sheer screen. He sees shadows moving just beyond it, hears the tub being drained and refilled.

"Waste of water," he mutters to Jim as they help him back in, dipping a fresh cloth into it. They repeat the process twice, each time carefully cleaning every inch of Izzy's body, rinsing his hair and his beard, soaking aching muscles.

"Fuck," he mutters, realizing he was talking out loud again.

"I mean, you're not wrong," they say, smiling crookedly. "But you know. I've got, like, layers."

They wrap Izzy in a heavy silk robe, a rich burnt orange with delicately embroidered flowers trailing up from the hem. The sleeves drape down over Izzy's hands and Jim rolls them up, exposing a delicate peach lining.

"Feel fuckin' ridiculous in this," Izzy mutters, tugging at the hem nervously.

"Fuck am I doing in something like this? Might as well put a fuckin' pig in a cotillion gown, everybody still knows it's a fuckin' pig." He shifts, rubbing the fabric between his fingers almost longingly. "Soft, though. Imagine living your whole life surrounded by things soft as this..."

There's something almost dreamy in his voice as he says it. Jim shrugs, helping him stand again.

"I think it suits you," they say simply.

There's a knock at the door

Jim keeps their body between Izzy and the door as they answer it, glaring.

"Que pasa?" they snap, "This better be fuckin' good"

Stede's voice is unmistakeable on the other side

"Oh! I-- yes! That is, hello! I just, I was, I wanted to make sure that Izzy, or I suppose that... that you have everything you need. For. For Izzy?"

His voice lilts up at the end. Izzy pictures his flushed face, the way he fiddles with the hem of his jacket when he's nervous

Totally ridiculous of course. Izzy says as much as Jim pushes the door shut in Stede's face, his sad little "oh" the last thing they hear. Izzy stares at the door, not sure what to do with the discomfort roiling in his belly.

"I want him, I think," he says. He wonders if he could just stab himself in the eye and have done with it. "I mean, I want to fucking punch him, but I want him, too. Fucked if I know why, the man's an idiot."

Jim just shrugs.

"Hard to tell sometimes, though," Izzy continues. "Sometimes I think all of it, the shit that started with Hornigold years ago, fuckin' broke me. Takes me so long to realize when I want somebody. Sometimes I'm not sure if I really do, or if I just like being wanted. Never really trusted myself after all that. That's why there was only ever Ed, and Jack. Always knew where I stood with them. Thought I did, anyway"

Izzy takes Jim's hand when they offer it

"Been a long fucking time since Ed touched me. Jackie's dead. I just... I don't want Hornigold to be the last man who ever touched me."

They make their way along the hall towards his cabin.

"Makes sense to me, viejo," they say calmly. "Grain of salt though--I'm still an orphan raised by a nun to be a killing machine."

Izzy laughs, wincing when his ribs twinge.

"But he tries anything you don't want?" Jim adds, "I stab him in the fuckin face. Deal?"

Izzy snorts, then turns to Jim, reaching out to shake their hand, mock serious.

"You've got yourself a deal, Mister Jimenez," he says. They smile at him, quick and bright, pushing open the door to his room. He settles on the bed, exhaustion making his limbs heavy. After a moment, he realizes Jim hasn't left. They settle in a chair near the door, quiet and watchful. For the first time in a long time, Izzy drifts towards a sleep he doesn't fear.