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.

Stede, knife in hand, turns and runs for Jackie's.

*

Jim and Izzy feel it at the same moment, tension prickling in the air. Jackie's is quiet. Too quiet. No one looks at their table, but the not-looking is ostentatious, performative.

"Guys?" Olu asks nervously as they exchange a look. Jim grips their knife tight, exchanging a nod with Izzy as his hand comes to rest almost casually on his sword.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Izzy hopes like hell they take it, even as he's almost certain Jim won't leave without him. Even Olu probably won't abandon him. Idiots. They should get out while they can. Two more men lunge at him, their movements clumsy. He slits one's throat with the tip of his sword, stepping back and plunging it into the guts of the next and then pulls--

Fuck.

His sword is stuck in this stupid bastard's ribs. The man stares at him, mouth agape as he dies.

Izzy shoves at him ineffectively, trying to pull it free, fucking fuck, he doesn't have time for this shit and... Cold steel at his throat stops him short. An arm wraps around his waist, foul breath on the back of his neck as someone laughs.

"Hornigold'll be very grateful to have his little bedwarmer returned to him," the man growls, drags Izzy backwards, and Izzy reaches towards the knife at his belt. A spray of hot blood over his shoulder stops him.

He stands for a moment, frozen, waiting to feel the life pouring out of him and then--

"Don't worry, I've got you!"

Strong, familiar arms wrap around him, sweeping him up and carrying him back from the fray. He sees Jim and Olu on the other side of the room, Olu shouting something as he drags Jim towards the exit, Jim fighting and cursing, looking back towards Izzy. Stede turns, and Izzy loses sight of them. There's a door at the back of the room.

Stede pushes it open, rushing out into the open air of the alley just as gunfire erupts behind them, quickly followed by shrieks of terror. Well. Sounds like Jackie's back. Stede rushes headlong down the alley, still clutching Izzy in his arms. His eyes are wild, green coat sleeves stained dark with blood. There's a spray of blood across his face and neck, too, his hair askew, cravat rumpled and stained.

"Put me down, you fucking twat!" Izzy snaps.

Stede stops in his tracks. They're about three streets away from Jackie's, tucked into a quiet alleyway.

"Sorry!" he says, setting Izzy on his feet, and then again, "Sorry!"

He looks around, eyes darting in a way that can only be described as the literal opposite of surreptitious. Izzy glares at him, shaken and, now that he has a moment to think about it, in pain. His ribs, still healing, throb with every inhalation. Still, he can breathe at least.

He looks Stede up and down, taking in the silk suit, the carefully coiffed, if now ruined, hair.

"God, you fucking twat, I can't believe you wore that to the fuckin' Republic of Pirates, are you trying to get yourself killed?" he hears himself snap. Stede flushes, looking away, and Izzy looks him up and down, taking in the ruined silk and lace cuffs, the blood-stained dagger clutched in his hand.

"Well, I-- that is, I thought this was a bit more--"

"Oh, shut up," Izzy says and then, before he can reconsider, shoves Stede into the rough stone wall of the alley, and kisses him.

*

"Fuck, Olu, what the fuck are you doing!" Jim shouts as Olu pulls them up the stairs, out into the street. They pass Jackie on her way down, pistol drawn, flanked by two large husbands. God help anyone in that bar.

"Jim, come on! Izzy's with Stede--we'll find them after we get out of here!"

Jim curses, but follows Olu.

*

For a moment, Stede thinks Izzy's going to bite him. That seems somehow to make more sense than this, Izzy's lips pressed against his, his hands on Stede's shoulders, pinning him against the wall. For a moment, Stede doesn't respond. He feels Izzy hesitate, start to pull back. Oh. Oh hell. This really is happening isn't it? Before Izzy can pull away, Stede wraps his arms around his waist, holding him gently but firmly as he finally kisses him back.