ninetoes | Open Post

There was a time aboard The Revenge where breakfast was eaten at a white-clothed table, marmalade jars were plentiful, and excessively wasteful cakes were served for no real purpose. Those days were over. What was left onboard the ship they'd have to pray to whatever god would answer them that they could trade for gunpowder or the proper equipment to make an actual living as a pirate. Blackbeard's flag may not be taken as seriously given the rumors that surely were heard around the sea- the once dreaded and famed Blackbeard had signed his life away to serve the King.

Edward kicks at a bag of dry goods as he looks over their current stock. The liquor should stay, he'd need at least a bottle a day to keep him from feeling things anymore, and that was the goal.

"Fingerling potatoes..." he scoffs, digging a hand into one sack of provisions, plucking a small oblong spud from the pile and flicking it at his first mate. "Funny. Looks more like toes."

The poor little nightshade hits Izzy’s arm and falls to the floor with a thump, the impact of which being enough to make the man stop and cast his captain a long suffering side eye. It’s annoying as fuck but in the same breath (and being an acknowledgement of The Return To How Things Should Be) the funniest thing he’s heard in a while.

Stocktake is well below them but sometimes- and this feels all the more poignant at the moment- you just have to do things yourself if you want them done right.

And in any case Izzy will never complain about time spent with Edward away from the gaggle of morons above deck. This time, even counting potatoes and pomelo, is sacred.

That sanctity has been raked across the coals and spat on these past many weeks. So this stupid joke, the act that commands it in the first place, and the blissful departure of the human Punch and Judy doll- all of it is carefully lifting those battered bits of whatever remains and breathing life back into the embers.

They’re small embers, but they’re there. And to Izzy they’re more dazzling than all the stars in the night sky.

He’s quiet for a beat, considering the pomelo in his hands. It’s the size of a cannonball and has a good heft to it. Push come to shove it might do some damage were he to throw it with all his might.

A snort. He puts the fruit back in its barrel and turns, shifting his weight to lean against it and give his aching foot a break.

Ed’s laughing. That’s good. Psychotic but good. Feels like old times. Keeps a man sharp. Terrified. Efficient.

“You sound hungry. Three month’s supplies in here. Three and a fortnight if we chuck over the fatty up top. Does this mean you’ve decided our heading?”

The gabby little shit he'd thrown off of the deck was wrong. Ed had done everything 'right'; gone to lengths he never thought he hinself could, and Stede Bonnet had still left him. But Edward Teach wouldn't die alone in a puddle of his own piss... he'd been wrong about that too. Ed would never be alone as long as the man hobbling behind him remained loyal, and he'd made sure that he would never even consider crossing him again. That wretched little spud was just another reminder.

He scoffs at the accusation. Blackbeard hadn't had an appetite for anything but rum in some time. He'd depression-eaten enough jars of marmalade to turn him off of it completely, the smell alone turning his stomach. "If you keep chucking them overboard we won't have any of them left to steer the ship." he replies, any pretense of a smile leaving his face. Seeing Bonnet's men didn't make things easy, but there wasn't much choice in crewmates until they could either make landfall again or cross paths with the right sorts of ships.

"We'll continue to head West." he mutters in response, "Pick off a few weaker merchants until we have the proper fire power to handle the larger traders."

He shrugs, their options are limited, but they'd make do. They always did. "Send the green ones over first when we raid. With any luck the rations will last nearly twice as long."

Keep chucking them- excuse you sir.

Not that he wouldn't like to. Not that the urge doesn't routinely burn in his throat every single second he sees them. They only kept the useful ones and still that urge is there.

Just like the potato. Just like the meaning of it. Just like his loyalty.

Always, always there. His loyalty to Blackbeard never waned. Never. To Edward? Sure. But not Blackbeard. It's been his driving force this entire time.

"I'm sure we can make that happen. We've been dicking about in this sea long enough."

Heading West feels like a blessing. West means warmer waters and The Caribbean Sea. Past Cuba towards The Spanish's naughty little Nicaragua. There is opportunity in the West, and (with any luck) far enough away that a pissfuck in a rowboat wouldn't be able to follow. God, if there is a God, please let that man be dead.

Izzy marinates on it for another moment, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his beard.

"Can we speak plainly for a moment, sir."

He doesn't wait for the response. He knows through his privilege that he can push forward. Earned with years of sweat, blood, and tears.

"This is for the best, Edward. I know it hurts, but this is for the best. Your eyes are clouded. Mine aren't."

Ever since the incident with the barnacles, there has been an all-out war on the ship Revenge.

It involves Lucius figuring out exactly how to make Izzy’s life as miserable as possible.

Sure, Lucius doesn’t necessarily have to put in that much effort, as just being in the Revenge seems to be a special hell for Izzy in the first place. But Lucius is a crafty little bitch, and it’s so much more FUN to put in the extra effort.

The first part of the plan was to figure out where Izzy was sleeping most nights (one of the guest cabins), then which wall his bed was against (Starboard as it turns out), followed by figuring out which room had an adjoining wall with it (the ball room). The next part he had to rope Pete in on, but the man was started to look at Lucius like he’d do anything the younger man asked him to, bless his heart. So that wasn’t too much of a chore.

Then, the plan just involved waiting until Izzy had gone to sleep, pulling Pete out from whatever he was in the middle of, and having fantastically loud sex up against the wall adjoining Izzy’s room.

So far is was working beautifully.

The word blessing is questionable here, while Blackbeard is hoping the change of scenery will set his mind at ease, Ed still finds himself longing for the man who had left him behind. The man that he didn't know was alive or dead. The man he risked everything for and for what? An empty promise and an evening wasted waiting, feeling like a fucking idiot on a dock.

Izzy is speaking to him again, knocking him loose of his thoughts. It's for the best he says. Maybe that's true. Whatever will stop that horrible feeling in his gut akin to the tip of a blade trapped there... worse- he'd rather be impaled over and over again than to experience this.

"Of course it is, Izzy." he sighs loudly, "More opportunities await..." He attempts to change the subject, because the last person he wants to hear from about badly he hurts is the person who sold him out to begin with. He feels the anger flare in his stomach again... anger is so much easier to feel than grief, and it boils within his belly white-hot, consuming him.

"You'd best not question my vision, Izzy." he hisses, "Or I'll take yours next."

So far Lucius Spriggs is proving one of the biggest pains in the arse Izzy has ever encountered in his whole bloody life. And he isn't young. He's also met a lot of pains in the arse.

Can't kill him yet, can't get him to listen, what is there left but to grind the fucker into the ground? He's tried, he really has. Some people are just hard to break.

And it sounds like he's being broken judging by the awful fucking noise through the wall.

Izzy does his damnedest to ignore the noise but no amount of cotton jammed in his ears does the job and every time he thinks he might just manage to nod off, a great thump against the wall violently jars him back.

Enough- he growls and gets to his feet, shoving himself into his outer clothes before tearing through the corridor and into the ballroom like a bat out of hell.

It's Lucius. Of course it's fucking Lucius. He had an inkling (and a lot of self hatred at being able to distinguish who a man was based on sex noises) but finding the mess of limbs and sweat in a quite frankly disgusting rat-king of a lump fills him with a rage he can't articulate. He isn't stupid. They're positioned exactly opposite his bunk by design.

"YOU!" he roars, still fastening his belt before thinking better of it and pulling the length of leather back from his trouser loops.

"GET UP, NOW!"

That's fair. He deserved that. Moment over, Izzy nods and backs down. He knows he's been heard, and that's good enough.

"Of course."

It's a careful waltz between them. More accurately a hobble at the moment, but that's okay. His dues for taking desperate action and he isn't in the mood to fight over the past. They both did what they did and they're both hurting for it.

Eyes forward. Ever onward. Barely scraping by to live another day.

"I should be up top.. Unless you need me."

“Babe, maybe give us the room,” Lucius untangles himself from Pete’s grasp. Oh yes, this is going exactly as he planned it to.

Lucius gives Pete a little slap on the ass as he leaves, just to rub it in. Yes that’s right, Izzy. He is banging the fuck out of that dude. Jealous?

“Don’t you look all wound up, Dizzy Izzy. Couldn’t sleep?”

Pete moves to get around past Izzy and to the door which is a good opportunity to snap that belt of his against the retreating man's thigh, still exposed as he struggles with his britches. Pete yelps and gives a scandalized look back before disappearing faster than you'd think a bloke like him could move.

Izzy barely looks away from Lucius as he does it.

And a lashing is a brave thing to do on a ship full of tortured men. Too close to the bullshit that goes on aboard military ships. Things those men do to men like them.

He would know.

He doesn't stop, doesn't break gate, doesn't break eye contact. Just barrels across the room until he's got his gloved fist at the other man's smug throat. His naked hand holds the belt which he presses up against Lucius' adam's apple as though it were a blade. There's contact this time. Lots of it, chest to chest with weight to pin them against the wall.

"I've had enough of you," he says softly. Which should be a much greater indicator of danger than yelling.

"You're just being cute again, yeah? Is that it? Tell me, mummy didn't love you? Did you get the belt too hard as a boy? Are you so desperate for any attention that you you'd fuck that pig against my bed?"

This should be fucking terrifying. They’re alone, which means that the rest of the crew isn’t here to stand up for him like they usually do. Almost every other time Izzy has lost his shit on him like this, there have at least been witnesses, and Lucius knows his boys would never let any real harm happen to him. So any rational person would be genuinely worrying about what Izzy might be capable of now that they’re alone.

But instead Lucius can’t stop smiling, even as Izzy is desperately trying to cut off his airways. Because seeing the other man this angry just fills Lucius with so much satisfaction that he fucking won.

“Yeah, my mum never liked that I wouldn’t marry a nice girl from a good merchant family and bring respect to our piss poor family. Definitely the entire reason I am the way I am. What’s your excuse, Izzy? So much fucking anger, do you think it’s from the fact you gave your whole life to a bloke who’d rather fuck the first pretty piece of blond ass he come across?”

Ed closes his eyes, taking a cleansing breath. Maybe that was uncalled for... Izzy had already paid for his disloyalty, after all. And that was just it, if Edward Teach was to be Blackbeard again, he did need Izzy.

"The men can run a ship without you screaming at them for a moment." he sighs as his eyes open again, his fist still clenched as he tries to work the anger out. It does him no good to have his own first mate afraid to voice his opinions.

"Grab a bottle of rum." he mutters, moving past Izzy back to the direction of his quarters, "We've got work to do."

Is that why he's angry? Maybe. Is he going to divulge that to this worm? Over his dead fucking body. Edward can and will and has fucked whomever he likes. Israel's feelings about the matter aren't a factor. His job, his purpose is to keep his captain content and safe, come Hell or high water. He will always work towards that goal, even if Edward doesn't agree with his methods. At any cost. This crew would do well to take note.

"I am angry because I am tired, and you have nothing better to do than unravel the hem of my jumper," he says and leans in that little bit closer. So close it's intimate. They are well and truly alone and the possibilities are endless. What a shame his blade is in his bunk.

"If you want to die, Mr. Spriggs, I would be more than happy to oblige. All you need to do is ask. But I don't think you do, and I don't think this is all you are. Respect has to be earned. It's work, which you know fuck all about and might be half good at if you tried."

:3!

The call to action pushes the tangles mess of conflicting feelings aside, and he leans back to give Edward space before following, albeit slowly.

He'll need time to recover his steps, but time stops for no man, and he won't complain. He's got a fresh(ish) bandage and the bleeding has stopped for the most part.

Rum is easily acquired, and while the details of work is still to come, the fact that they're doing something fans those embers in his belly a little brighter. He feels good with a purpose. With a plan. Even if it's just getting to the Captain's Quarters, delivering the bottle, and easing himself into a seat with a soft noise. He can work with this.

“And what do you think would happen if you killed me? Think Blackbeard would keep you around after you got rid of his boyfriend’s right hand man and personal confidante? He seems like he’s starting to have just about enough of you, Izzy.” The grin is back, looking down at Izzy with all the smugness he can muster. God, he’s so glad he’s tall in moment like this, makes looking down at the angry little man all the more dramatic.

Lucius leans back against the wall, wriggling a little to get comfortable under the press of Izzy’s body. “Do you actually think I’m cute?”

There's no sense in waiting for the hobbling first mate in the hall. Ed makes his way back to his quarters, giving himself the spare time to work out his emotions before Izzy is present. Things are different with Izzy, Ed can't feel freely without judgement, he's expected to be strong. He has to remember what that is like.

Moving through the eerily empty room, he pushes one of the chairs out from behind the table, settling down in it and kicking his feet up. By the time Izzy makes it there, Ed will be lighting his freshly-packed pipe as a means to keep his nerves settled.

"Sit down." he instructs without looking up, shaking the match off to the side until the flame disappears.

"How long can we realistically run on a skeleton crew before things become difficult?" he asks, not wasting time. Better to ease into this moment by focusing on the work, which there'd be plenty of, soon enough.

It earns a small snarl but Izzy won't give him the satisfaction of turning the narrative of this discourse.

"You're a pet, Lucius." Seeing as they're using first names and he's tired enough to leave his own rules for a beat.

"Blackbeard doesn't give a wild shit about Bonnet's pets," said as he moves his hand from the other man's neck to toy with the piece of tartan tied around it.

"Wearing pretty little bows like a pussycat. We don't allow pets on ships. And besides, I'm sure you're aware that we're alone. If you went missing no one would know the hows and whys. It's just one less whiny, lazy mouth to feed."

“I’d rather be a pet than a goddamn limpet. People love pets, you’re a fucking parasite.”

Lucius rolls his eyes. Look who still can’t keep his hands off him. He closes his eyes, leaning his head towards Izzy’s hand like the good kitty he is.

“Pete knows we’re in here together, wouldn’t take a genius to figure out who was with me last. Do you think any of this through, Izzy?”

"No one important would care. And if I came in here to kill you, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Which should be obvious. His grace has gone unappreciated.

A parasite, though. He'll remember that. From where he's standing, a parasite is something that attaches itself to a host, sucks up whatever it wants, and doesn't contribute. So if we're throwing stones...

The exchange has reached a point where talking more will only make it worse. There may come a larger, more final confrontation but this isn't it.

"Quite frankly, I have more important things to be doing than wasting my breath on you."

He lets go and takes a step back, rolling the belt around his gloved hand. Lucius has gotten the reaction he was apparently after. The game ends now.

"I suggest you go to sleep, Mr. Spriggs. I'll see to it you have a very long, very early day tomorrow."

He considers the question for a beat as he opens the bottle of rum and pours two glasses. Edward's first (always), which he gives over before pouring his own.

A vessel never carries more crew than it needs to. There's never the space and feeding extra mouths is bad business. But Bonnet's crew was mainly comprised of layabouts and harlots, so it was running under powered long before they marooned most of them.

"Well," a sip. He'll give Bonnet this, the drink selection is decent.

"We could do with a carpenter and another gunner or two but assuming the lot we've kept pull any kind of weight we'll be fine for the foreseeable future. Maybe a sailmaker. I'm not sure that lad can sew as well as he says he can."

“What did you come in here to do, then?” Lucius pouts, eyeing that belt in Izzy’s hand. Just come in brandishing that thing around and not even doing anything with it, what a tease.

“If you’re leaving, can you send Pete back in? We didn’t exactly get to finish before.”

The glass doesn't sit for long before Edward is swiping it up to drink it. He'd have foregone the glass altogether, there was certainly no one aboard to pretend to be proper for.

"He'll learn to." he mutters into his glass. Frenchie managed to stitch up the flag to Ed's liking, which was good enough. And he seemed to fear them enough to not talk back, to do as he's told and do it quickly.

"Right. West, then." he sighs, the expedition not nearly as exciting to him as it might have once been. There's a moment of silence as he drinks more of the rum, contemplating.

"Can I ask you something?" he starts, not waiting for an answer to continue, "What do you want out of all of this?" Because this can't just be it. There has to be more to life than sailing back and forth and feeding people their toes.

If Izzy could roll his eyes any harder they would fall out of his head.

He gives a disgusted, long suffering noise and grabs Lucius again, this time with the intention of frog marching him out of the ballroom. What a waste of space this room is.

"Out! Get out, you're done in here."

Israel considers this for a moment as well. It's a question he's asked himself with increasing frequency the last long while. Honestly compels him, though.

"Freedom?"

A sip. There's guarded but worn emotion in his voice when he speaks next.

"I can't go back there."

England, he means.

The ring tied at his throat feels tighter than ever. The glove on his hand stuck like tar.

Lucius pouts, and reaches down to do his pants up. Yes, his dick has been put this whole time, no big deal.

“Why, where are you taking me, Mr. Hands?”

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