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"

Jackie's buzzes with tension as Izzy walks in, flanked by Jim and Olu. The steady hubbub dips, voices lowering, the constant noise of glass clinking and smashing stopping for a fraction of a second that stretches into an eternity. Jim spins a knife around their knuckles, glaring around the room. After a moment, the noise rises again, the tenor different as those not too drunk to look up mutter amongst themselves.

"Gossipy fuckers," Izzy mutters.

*

Stede stands in the auxiliary wardrobe, staring at racks upon racks of clothing. His last selection for the Republic had been... less successful than he hoped. Perhaps something more understated this time? He pulls out a soft celadon jacket and matching trousers, slub silk shimmering in the low light. Fab! And sure to draw less attention than the white tails. He thinks. Probably. Well, it's the best he can do. He hums to himself as he dresses.

Stede walks briskly but confidently down the gangplank and into the Republic's narrow, dirty streets. For some reason he doesn't feel that much more inconspicuous than previously. He puts some of it down to nerves and the rest... well, he supposes they've never seen anyone with his bearing, his panache, his...

He realizes he's not totally sure where he's going. He's only ever been to one pub here, and he's technically banned from that one, although...

He turns down the narrow alley that leads to Jackie's, feeling quite pleased with himself for remembering. The general hubbub in the streets is such that it takes him a moment to notice anything is amiss, until--

The sound of smashing glass, a scream, followed by another. A couple of drunks stumble by, apparently fleeing the pub.

"I don't care what they say," one of them slurs, "taking down Blackbeard's first mate is still too rich for my blood..."

"'sides," the grimy-looking drunkard adds, swaying on his feet, "heard Hornigold wants the prick alive. Can't be bothered dealing with that, no matter what the bounty--"

His words cut off with a gurgle. Stede barely feels the hot spray of arterial blood over his hand and sleeve. He pulls his knife free. The other drunkard is already fleeing down the alley, not sparing a backwards glance for his former companion, now a cooling corpse on the muddy path.