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.

Stede spends the next few days hovering around the ship, feeling like a ghost on his own vessel. He asks Buttons to set a course for the Republic--some shoreleave for the crew, and a chance to pick up some supplies, not to mention to clear his own head, seems in order.

Ed barely talks to him. Stede finally told him, at the end of that very long day, that Izzy was back. Ed just grunted, refusing to look him in the eye. He still hasn't seen Izzy.

He whimpers as he comes, grabbing the washcloth he brought with him to the auxiliary auxiliary closet. Since that first time he's at least had the presence of mind to prepare for these little incidents. Somehow that makes it worse.

He runs a hand over his face, straightens his rumpled shirt as best he can. There's a damp spot on the hem where his teeth dug into it as he painted desperately. He tucks it in, hoping he doesn't look too out of sorts.

He considers changing, but feels self conscious of that too. He's always been a bit of a clothes horse, but the number of outfits he's gone through on a daily basis lately has been frankly ridiculous. The laundry situation is getting out of hand.

They'll be docking soon. He wonders if he can find a discreet herbalist who could give him some sort of... anti-aphrodisiac? He certainly can't ask Roach. He runs his fingers through his hair, damp with sweat.

The situation is untenable. He knows that. He just doesn't know what to do about it.

*

Jim can't tell if Stede's following them and Izzy around the ship, or if he just sucks at avoiding them. From the haunted look on Stede's face every time he sees them, they suspect he's not sure either. The captain looks increasingly wrecked. He flushes bright red when he sees Izzy. Jim turns to one of their own favourite fantasies--stabbing Stede Bonnet in the face

They watch Izzy out the corner of their eye as they "accidentally" run into Stede in the hall outside the first mate's cabin for the third time today. It's only just gone noon. Stede stammers, flush spreading up his neck, across his cheeks, all the way to his perfectly coiffed--or actually, slightly mussed and sweaty--hair.

"Izzy!" he squeaks. "And Jim! Both of you! So. Um. Yes. Well, I just wanted to tell you. Both of you. We'll be docking soon."

Izzy looks down. He's blushing too, hands clasped in front of him. Jim resists the urge to stab Stede, if only for Izzy's sake. They look Stede up and down, from his sweaty hair to his fussy little velvet breeches--the third new pair they've seen him in today, oddly enough. Well. No accounting for taste.

"I-- that's-- yes, sir. Thank you sir," Izzy mumbles at last. Stede turns an even deeper shade of red, bordering on purple. His trousers are too tight

Jim rolls their eyes, ostentatiously looking away from the clear imprint of Stede's dick in his pants. Fucking hell, this guy is what, 50? He's got the stamina of a teenager if the noises the crew have heard coming out of the walls are anything to go by. Stede and Izzy both shuffle their feet for a moment.

"Right," Stede says, "I'll just. I'll just leave you to it, yes?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, fleeing back down the hall. Jim rolls their eyes.

The bruises have started to heal, skin a mottled yellow and brown along his jaw, in patches on his cheeks and forehead. He can still see Ben's fingerprints around his throat. The swelling around his eye has finally gone down enough that he can see out if it--Roach seemed pleased and a little surprised that the eye itself was apparently undamaged.

"You're lucky," he said dryly as he pulled Izzy's eyelid back, checking his pupil dilation. Izzy snorted.

Roach just shrugged, pulling a joint from behind his ear and lighting it with the match he used to check Izzy's eye.

"It's all relative," he says, circumspect. "For an unlucky bastard, you're pretty lucky."

Izzy likes Roach, he's realized over the past few days. The man knows his work and does it, and he doesn't talk too much. He phrases his questions carefully to elicit the information he needs without forcing Izzy to say more than he'd like.

Roach won't speculate on what exactly Hornigold used on Izzy.

"Long lasting," he says, frowning. "Not permanent. You're already talking less."

It's true. Izzy still finds himself saying more than he means to. He still feels exposed, like a raw nerve. But he can at least bite his tongue now, hold his breath until he can get away, bury his face in a pillow while secrets pour out of him.

"How long will it last?" Jim asks on his behalf. Roach just shrugs

He looks at Izzy speculatively.

"Hard to say. But... I have a friend in the Republic who might know more."

They make port around sunset. A trail of shimmering fire leads them into the harbour, clouds low to the horizon, gold turning red turning vivid salmon and orange. Izzy stands on deck, staring out at the horizon. Jim sits nearby, as they always do these days. They're always there when Izzy wakes up screaming. They don't fuss. Izzy likes that.

Stede was right to call for shoreleave. The crew needs a break. The ship needs repairs. Izzy needs...

He turns away from sunset, staring towards the squat, huddled buildings of the Republic. He doesn't know what he needs. Jim catches his arm, steadying him as he steps foot on land for the first time since he was taken. Sickness rises in the back of his throat until he feels he'll cough it up like a bezoar.

"Right," he says, "let's get a fuckin drink"