Jack shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He's really fuckin' lost it now. Conjuring up Ed fuckin' Teach to keep him company. Fucking lunatic. He hears his new cellmate breathing. Fuck, even that sounds familiar.

He doesn't know why he asks. He doesn't give a shit. There's nothing left to give a shit about. But somehow, the words find their way out of his throat, raw and rough.

"Who's there?"

As if it would make a bit of difference.

As if it could matter even if it was Ed, even if it was Blackbeard running some fuckery, with a fleet of ships about to descend on Hornigold and tear him apart. Nothing matters. Izzy Hands is dead. Jack heard him die. He doesn't feel a damn thing when he hears that familiar voice from the shadows again.

"Jack?"

He knows Izzy, though, at least he used to. Been a long time since he could fool himself into believing he knew anything, beyond how to survive a mutiny and where he'd stashed the last of his rum. But Izzy...

Jack knows Izzy the way he knows his own right arm. A constant presence, something you never think twice about until it's gone. Well, he's had a long damn time to think twice. That's why he didn't hesitate when Izzy asked him for help.

The old prick was always only too happy to do as he asked.

The older men snickered about it. Hornigold's pretty little bedwarmer, begging to be put in his place again.

Fuckers.

Jack still didn't get it, not really. Took about a year before he saw Izzy slipping out of the captain's cabin late at night, just after one of his and Ed's pranks gone wrong. Izzy took the blame, as usual, the crew laughing, nodding to each other knowingly.

Hornigold dropped it at his feet two days later, ripped and stained, unrecognizable. The old man had smiled at him, almost sympathetic

"You're a promising young sailor, Rackham. I'd hate to see you go down the wrong path"

The quartermaster gave Jack ten lashes the next day. Jack still has the scars. He didn't see Izzy for two full days after that. When he finally reemerged from the captain's cabin, it was with two black eyes and a split lip

It was a week before he looked Jack in the eye again.

Ed and Jack planned the mutiny not long after. Ed was always popular, skilled. Hornigold's protégé. It was easy to get the men on his side. Jack who took the plan to Izzy, in the end, but that didn't matter. It was Ed's. He saw the way Izzy's eyes shone when he looked at Ed like he was the only man in the room. Jack Rackham may be a gambler, but he knows a losing hand when he's holding it

When Izzy left to be Ed's first mate, well. Jack didn't even try to argue with him. He knew when to fold. Even if Ed never seemed to appreciate Izzy as much as he deserved. Izzy was happy. That was what mattered.

That's what he told himself, lying in the bottom of a little fishing boat, ribs aching, still not totally sure he hadn't found his way to a particularly boring circle of hell. That cannonball looked pretty final, after all.

It was okay. It would all be okay, so long as Izzy was happy, and safe. Jack owed him that. Jack owed him everything.

Jack was stuck in the bottom of a bottle of rum when Hornigold's men found him. Ribs still only half healed, reflexes dulled by drink, he was an easy target.

He half expected the old man to just kill him right away, but that wasn't Hornigold's style. Motherfucker always liked to play games. He left Jack alone in a cell.

Didn't even talk to him. Came in from time to time to just stare at him. Well, no skin off Jack's nose. If there's one thing he knows how to do it's fill an awkward silence

After two or so of those sessions, Hornigold had him gagged

"I won't take it personal, Horny," were his last words as Hornigold's man stuffed the gag between his teeth. Hornigold just smiled at him again, that same unnerving smirk that meant he knew something Jack didn't

And fuck that, too. Lots of people knew shit Jack didn't. Just about everybody, in fact. Didn't scare him none.

Until he heard Izzy's voice.

Jack stares down at the dark space where he imagines his hands are. They took the fucking gag out after... After. Let him scream himself hoarse calling for Izzy, begging him to answer. But after days of choked screams, of sounds he knew Izzy would never make if he weren't dying, there was nothing.

Hornigold almost looked pitying when Jack screamed at him, demanded to know where Izzy was, what he'd done to him.

"I'd forgotten you and my little bird were so... close," he said. Coming from him, the innuendo was enough to make Jack's skin crawl. "I'm afraid some of my men got a bit too rough with the poor thing. We committed his body to Davy Jones' locker last night. Shame, really. I was so looking forward to staging a little reunion."

Jack's been here, in the dark, for weeks now

He stopped trying to keep track of time a few days after he found out Izzy was dead. Didn't believe it at first, of course, or didn't want to. Hornigold was fucking with his head, trying to... to... Well, Jack didn't know what he was trying to do, but it had to be something. Days went by, if the occasional provision of a bit of water was anything to go by. Hornigold didn't even look at him anymore

There was no sign of Izzy, no sound, no sign he was alive elsewhere on the ship. Hornigold sure as hell wouldn't let him go. Conviction settled over Jack slowly, growing up from his belly to claw at his throat like the strangling vines that killed his mother's garden when he was young enough to have a mother.

Izzy Hands was dead. All these years later. The mutiny, building Blackbeard's legend, hell, becoming the best damn sword Jack ever saw

None of it made a damn bit of difference. Izzy died at Benjamin Hornigold's hands, just like he always feared he would, and Jack didn't do a goddamn thing to help. Just like when they were kids.

"Jack, for fuck's sake, will you stop ignoring me?"

Ed's voice cuts through Jack's thoughts again. Has he been talking this whole fuckin' time? Christ, and people think Jack doesn't know when to shut up.

"I know it's you, you rum drenched wanker."

Ed's voice is sharp and high, like it used to be when they were younger. Maybe this really is just a hallucination.

"Fuckin' talk to me, Jack," Ed whines, and that cracks it, it's gotta be a hallucination, because that's the exact voice Ed used when he thought he wasn't getting enough attention 20 years ago.

"Christ, Eddie, give it a rest," he says finally. No point talking to anybody else, but no reason not to talk to himself at least.

"Jack!" Ed's voice sounds breathy this time, like a gasp of relief. "Fuck me, mate, I thought you were dead!"

Jack grunts, noncommittal. Maybe he is dead, after all. Maybe this is hell.

"Come on man, don't clam up again!" The hallucination is still talking. Jack shakes his head, trying to clear it. As he begins to speak, the door creaks open. Sickly yellow lantern light floods in, blinding. Hornigold stands silhouetted in the doorway.

"Boys," he says, boisterous and booming as ever, and Jack's theory that he might simply be in hell cements itself. "Why, it seems just yesterday that I had you both on my crew--such clever, promising lads. My how things change."

Jack doesn't bother to answer. He doesn't care if he or Ed--real or imagined--die here, slow or fast.

Only one thing interests him now, only one thing could spur him to action.

The chance to kill Benjamin Hornigold

He can hear the whine in his own voice as he begs Jack to speak.

"Christ, Eddie, give it a rest."

Ed's head spins with relief. The voice is rough, too flat, but unmistakably Jack.

"Jack," he gasps, relief flooding through him, and then "Fuck me, mate, I thought you were dead!"

He hadn't seen the cannon ball hit Jack--a bit busy getting caught by the English--but from what the crew told him after... Well. He didn't expect to see Jack again

Though technically he supposes he hasn't seen him, he's only--

The door opening cuts Ed's train of thought short. He squints. The lantern light outside is bright enough to blind him momentarily. Finally, his eyes focus on the silhouette in front of him. The relief he felt at hearing Jack speak bleeds out of him, leaving him ice cold.

"Boys!" And fuck if Hornigold doesn't sound just the same. "The most promising lads I ever had on my crew."

Ed can feel the bastard's smile even if he can't see it.

"My how things change."

The door swings shut behind him. Hornigold carries a small lantern, casting a ghastly light over his ruddy face. Fucker looks the same too. Either that or Ed's nightmares have aged along with him. How many times has he dreamt those eyes on him as he checks the rigging or takes inventory with Jack? How many times has he woken up gasping, calling out for Izzy.

Izzy was always there. Izzy protected him. He supposes that's why Izzy came with him in the end. Jack loved Izzy, but Ed needed him. Izzy liked being needed.

Hornigold watches him. He can feel the fucker's eyes on him, feels like he's 17 again. God he wishes he killed the bastard when he had the chance. He doesn't suppose he'll get another crack at it now. If he does, he doesn't suppose Jack'll be much help. He'll have to make it count.

Stede wonders if it would be alright to ask him. Izzy's been quite clear about questions of any kind as he recovers from whatever Hornigold drugged him with. But surely this is important enough to warrant an exception...

Stede is lost in thought when someone knocks on his door

"Enter!" he calls distractedly. He expects Roach checking on his stitches, or maybe Lucius to keep him company. Perhaps Buttons with an update on their heading!

So he doesn't look up from his rumination until a muttered curse in a familiar, hoarse voice catches his ear.

"Fuck," Izzy growls again, fumbling with the door as he balances a heavy looking tray on one hip.

"Izzy!" Stede exclaims, then winces as his attempt to sit up tugs at his studies.

"Fuck do you think you're playing at, eh?" Izzy demands, stalking forward. He sets the tray down by the bed and starts fussing with Stede's blankets.

"Leave you alone for ten minutes and you're about to rip your fuckin' stitches out and bleed to death on the floor."

Blankets adjusted to Izzy's satisfaction, he turns to Stede's pillows, plumping them behind him until Stede sits at a gentle angle. He mumbles and mutters as he does it, but when he stands back to survey his work, his cheeks are flushed

"Sorry," Stede says, not sure what else to say. They stare at each other for a long moment

Izzy picks up the tray, setting it over Stede's legs.

"What's this?" Stede asks, though the array of fruits and a hearty porridge, shot through with nuts and seeds and finished with a generous dollop of honey make the answer self evident. Izzy huffs irritably, crossing his arms.

"Fuck's it look like, you twat? It's breakfast." His words don't have the bite they used to, Stede thinks as Izzy continues. "Gotta keep up your strength."

Stede looks from the tray to Izzy and back again. Izzy flushes a brighter shade of red.

"Thank you, darling," Stede says at last. Izzy drops his eyes, apparently at a loss for words, and then grabs a spoon from the tray. He scoops up a little mouthful of porridge, thrusting it at Stede, who simply stares at it, jaw hanging open.

"Your arm's fucked," Izzy growls, still not making eye contact. "Just eat the fuckin' porridge, alright?"

And who is Stede to argue with the fearsome Izzy Hands, pirate extraordinaire? He opens his mouth, chewing slowly as Izzy feeds him. After several mouthfuls, Izzy takes a breath, bracing himself. Stede opens his mouth to comment. Izzy shoves in another mouthful before he can speak.

"Got word from one of the gulls, apparently," he says quickly. "Hornigold's left Kingston already."

Stede's eyes widen, but the porridge renders him inarticulate

"Ed's on board. Hornigold's men took him off the street."

Stede manages a squawk of outrage around the entirely too much porridge in his mouth

"We're in luck, though" Izzy continues, pausing only to sip a singularly out of place cup of black coffee from Stede's tray. "They're heading west. We're coming from the east. If we both keep our headings, we'll meet them halfway, on the open water."

The spoon scrapes the bottom of the porridge bowl

"Right," Izzy says, standing up quickly. "You're hurt, and you can't fight for shit. I think you should stay here. I'll lead the raid."

He hustles towards the door. He underestimates Stede's well developed ability to swallow porridge far more gluelike than this--boarding school was a useful education in that regard at least. Izzy's not even halfway across the room before Stede speaks.

"Israel Hands!" he snaps. "Get back here at once!"

Izzy stops with his back to Stede, hands balling into fists, shoulders around his ears. Stede crosses his arms, managing to keep wincing to a minimum as the movement tugs lightly at his stitches. Izzy turns slowly, crossing his own arms and glaring at Stede. That expression has, historically, not boded well for Stede. But then, he's never felt quite like this about any of those arguments. It was quite simple.

Izzy would not lead this raid.