Chapter Text
Edward and Izzy have been Captain and First Mate for just under a year when Izzy starts having to loosen his trousers. He initially attributes that to all the good eating he’s been doing since Edward’s become the scourge of the Caribbean. Their whole crew skews young; Izzy’s the oldest one aboard, and he’s not even 24. In less capable hands, they might have been sunk or hanged already. But Edward’s more than capable, he’s a fucking luminary, a genius at just 20, which is why Izzy gladly falls into bed with him every chance he gets. They don’t even have to raid ships properly half the time. Edward gets the pyrotechnics going, and rich merchants dive overboard, leaving all their finery for Blackbeard and his crew.
Edward’s a smooth talker. He calls Izzy’s prick gorgeous. He strokes the tattoo he left on Izzy’s cheek and calls Izzy his North Star. He drops to his knees in his cabin and murmurs Sir against the padding Izzy’s starting to get on his belly.
Of course, Ed’s a dick, too. When Izzy vomits over the side of the ship two days in a row, he calls him Izzy the Spewer, a name that unfortunately sticks. Izzy can handle a little shit-talking - he’d be a piss-poor pirate if he had a thin skin. Anyway, it’s Edward’s fault for feeding him so much rich food after years of moldy bread and thin rations.
Izzy’s cycle has always been irregular, more so for the past few years, since he started taking a potion Edward bought off a witch directly after Izzy told him he was a man. It lets Izzy grow a beard, drops his voice - luckily not so much that he loses the ability to sing - and when he’s dressed no one can tell he’s ever passed for anything other than a man. Ed adores Izzy’s body, tells him every time he fucks him until Izzy almost believes him. He makes sure Izzy has what he needs to make that body his own. If that potion seems to suddenly rid him of his cycles altogether, Izzy has no urge to question it.
Izzy’s coiling rope after a raid when something moves inside him. He pauses, wondering if the flutter in his belly is some strange new symptom to go along with the way he pukes every day now.
The fluttering continues. Izzy’s reminded of the flap of a bird’s wings. He touches his stomach from the outside but can’t feel anything there.
He’s reminded abruptly of his mother standing at the line, hanging up the wash, and dropping his quilt onto the grass. “ Oh, ” she’d said. Izzy had run over, barefoot, to see what was wrong. He must have been five at most, when they still lived somewhere with grass, before she died and he went to the workhouse. Mum had taken his hand and pressed it flat to her belly. “You might not be able to feel yet - the baby kicked me. No, it doesn’t hurt, sweet love.”
The rope drops from Izzy’s numb fingers. He grabs the rail, overcome by a wave of vertigo.
His trousers. His cycle. His sickness. The way Ed has fucked him for a year now, never bothering to be careful because he’s so clear that he sees Izzy as a man.
A pair of hands picks up the rope Izzy’s dropped. “You okay, boss?” Ivan asks.
Ivan’s perceptive; that’s why, when he joined their mutiny against Hornigold and subsequently became part of Blackbeard’s crew, Izzy had Edward promote him from deckhand to gunner. He’s only a bit green for it at 14, and smart enough that Izzy hopes he’ll stay on the crew indefinitely.
Right now, though, Izzy needs Ivan to be less perceptive. “None of your fucking business,” he says, avoiding Ivan’s gaze. “Finish this up for me.”
Izzy goes to his berth and bolts the door. He paces between his bed and desk. Ed dragged that desk aboard just for Izzy. Since you do all the writing here, he’d said, and then begged for Izzy to fuck him across it. He was so beautiful when he came, long dark curls spilling over the edge of Izzy’s new desk. Izzy’s captain, undone by his first mate. Izzy’s captain, for whom Izzy would do anything.
The galley keeps herbs. Izzy doesn’t know what combination of herbs stops a pregnancy once it quickens, but surely if he took enough of everything he would eventually bleed it out. Or he could throw himself down the stairs, but that really would mean bleeding out, for himself too, and ideally Edward will never find out about this. Edward can’t afford to lose his first mate so soon after becoming captain. Izzy’s already stopped three mutinies in this first year. Edward needs him.
The fluttering picks up again. Izzy grips the back of his chair and bows his head. He can’t decide. He doesn’t know what to do.
He goes to his trunk and digs out his vest.
The vest hides Izzy from the world. Ever since Ed held Hornigold’s surgeon at gunpoint and made him cut off Izzy’s tits, Izzy hasn’t had much use for the vest anymore. Now, he’s relieved to discover it hides a growing belly the same way it once hid his chest.
The only person his vest has never hidden him from is the one person he’s most intent on hiding from. Edward’s come to expect Izzy in his bed at least once a week - not expect in that he demands it the way most captains would… expect in that he’ll start pouting if Izzy spends too long away from him. It’s not just the fucking Ed enjoys. He takes great pride in being the only person to have ever held Izzy’s naked form and stroked his hair while he slept. For a pirate dead-set on becoming a legend, Edward’s frighteningly soft. He makes Izzy want softness.
The fluttering in Izzy’s belly becomes more defined each day. The sharp little kicks make Izzy want softness, too. He’s horrified.
He can’t let Ed seem him like this.
Ed flinches the first time Izzy turns him down. The second time, he wheedles: “C’mon, Iz, it’s been forever since you’ve spent the night. I miss you.”
The third time, Izzy snaps at him. “You’re my Captain, start acting like it,” he tells Edward, and leaves before he can see the hurt he’s sure is plain in those wide dark eyes he adores.
Edward can’t know. He’ll throw Izzy overboard, or worse, he’ll put him ashore the way Jack Rackham did to Anne Bonny. Izzy will never forget the way Anne screamed Jack’s name as he rowed away. She was a damn good pirate, better than Jack could ever hope to be, but Jack couldn’t abide having a round belly or squalling babe on his ship.
Izzy refuses to be left behind.
He pushes himself twice as hard in raids. He feeds British Navy men’s entrails to the sharks. He hangs half the crew when they try to mutiny. He stumbles to the rail each morning to vomit and then climbs the rigging to repair frayed ropes while sweat drips beneath his vest and the babe growing inside him kicks and turns.
All the while he feels Edward’s eyes on him, anxious and mistrustful by turns. He doesn’t ask Izzy to join him in bed anymore, not after that first month of pleading. Izzy lies awake in his cot even when he doesn’t need to be up for a watch and presses his palms against his stretch-marked belly. Sometimes he swears he can feel the child’s tiny hand against his. Surely he’s imagining things.
In the darkest nights in his berth, when the ship sways and the babe batters him, Izzy sings. He has no idea if the child can hear him. He hopes the crew can’t. He sings anyway in the language his mum sang to him in years ago. When he runs out of songs, he starts reciting her stories, too: I had a little overcoat, but it got old and worn, so I made a jacket out of it… The jacket becomes a vest - “not as nice as Da’s vest,” Izzy says one night, voice cracking, and immediately hates himself. He’s no one’s da. There’s no way he’ll be able to keep this child.
The vest becomes a necktie. The necktie becomes a handkerchief. The handkerchief becomes a button. The button is lost, and becomes a story. Izzy tells the story again and again, just as his mother did when he and his siblings were fussy little ones.
The babe in Izzy grows and grows.
Izzy doesn't recognize labor for what it is at first simply because it comes too soon, when his belly’s not nearly as large as Mum’s got before his sister was born. He wakes up vomiting, which isn’t unusual, though usually he can make it on deck before he loses control. He curls up on his cot and waits for the nausea to subside enough for him to go above.
It only gets worse.
The third time Izzy’s sick, he misses his bucket entirely. Vomit splatters the length of his sleep shirt. He strips it off, gagging at the smell.
All the muscles in his stomach and back tighten at once.
“Fuck,” Izzy breathes, and vomits again. He drops from his cot to the floor.
Whoever named these labor pains was lying, Izzy thinks frantically. This isn't pain. It's agony. He’s lost all track of time. He can’t find the strength to drag himself out of his berth, and what would he do then anyway? Go to Edward, who has no idea Izzy’s carrying his child in the first place? Go to Edward, who has no idea Izzy’s been lying to him for months? Worse, Izzy would encounter any of the crew, who would all be delighted to capture him at his weakest. He can’t fight in this state. If someone wanted him dead, he would die.
Maybe he’ll die anyway.
A firm knock shakes Izzy’s door.
“Go away,” Izzy rasps.
“I’m sorry, boss,” the Master Gunner, Fang, says. “We’re coming in.”
The door swings open. Izzy glares at Fang and, behind him, the ever-watchful Ivan, as much as he can when he can’t stop shaking. He watches them as they take in the places where he’s vomited and missed the bucket, the teeth marks where he’s bitten his own arm, and finally his shirtless form. There’s no mistaking the swell he’s kept hidden beneath layers of clothing for months.
“Boss,” Fang says. Ivan pushes the door shut and latches it. He grabs one of the clean towels from Izzy’s bedside table and starts soaking up the puddles of sick without a word. When Fang crouches in front of Izzy, Izzy shies away, just out of reach. “All this time?” Fang asks softly.
"I don't need help."
"And what if we hadn't come to check on you, boss? What if something went wrong and nobody knew where you were?"
Izzy hesitates. Whatever Fang sees in Izzy’s face makes Fang cringe, then scowl. Sweat drips down Izzy’s back. He wonders if Fang can tell that he was planning on just letting himself die quietly.
"You wouldn't do that, boss. You wouldn't do that to your babe."
Izzy flinches as if Fang has hit him. Fang and Ivan have never seen him flinch before. He shakes his head hard.
"So we're staying with him, right?" Ivan asks.
"Fuck yes we are," Fang says. "I don't know exactly how to help but it's better than him being alone."
“I know a little,” Ivan says grimly. “Hopefully enough to get him through it alive. What do you need, boss?”
Izzy's teeth chatter. "I need - off, off." He tugs at his sleep pants with sweat-slick hands. Fang helps ease them off his hips. He tosses them aside; they hit the deck with a sodden thud. Fang sits behind Izzy and loops his arms loosely around him. Izzy’s so exhausted that he slumps into his hold. Another pain takes him. Ivan gets a bucket in front of him just in time.
When the pain eases, Izzy’s left shivering. Ivan puts a gentle hand on his knee. “Will you let me look, boss?”
"Don't - "
Ivan hesitates, glancing over Izzy's shoulder at Fang. "I just - if something's wrong, boss, better we know sooner rather than later."
Izzy bites his lip until it bleeds. What dignity does he have left to preserve? "Do it," he gasps. "Just fucking do it." When Ivan’s fingers touch his overheated skin, he vomits directly into the bucket. Water streams from his eyes and nose.
Hours pass in an agonizing haze. Izzy's been sick so much that when he retches nothing comes up, not even bile. Fang keeps holding him up, crouched on the floor of his berth. Ivan's watching between his legs, sometimes touching gently to check on something. Izzy doesn't think either of them will ever follow his orders again. He's too weak to care. Right now, he thinks Ed's baby might actually kill him.
He wouldn't care if he weren't certain that he's going to be the death of Ed's baby, too.
The pressure's been unbearable for hours. Suddenly it's worse. How can it be worse? "Izzy - " Ivan says urgently - not boss, not sir, but Izzy, as if they're not only equals but friends. Izzy chokes and bears down without thinking. "Yeah, yeah, like that. Holy shit, keep going."
"I can't," Izzy grates out. He's never shown weakness like this to the crew. They're going to fucking kill him as soon as Edward's baby is safely out of him. "I can't - "
"You are," Ivan says.
"No."
"Yes. Fang, give me his hand." Fang shifts Izzy forward ever so slightly. Even that tiny motion makes Izzy bite down on a scream. "I know, I know, just...here." Ivan guides Izzy's fingertips to brush something solid emerging from him. Izzy inhales sharply and cups his hand around the blood-damp curls. "See, you're doing it."
Izzy's better as an arrow than an archer. On his own, he can't always find his way, but point him in the right direction and he'll hit the bullseye every time. He's been aimed now. He knows what to do. He presses down into the pain, letting it pull him apart so that tiny head can bloom into his palm. He jerks in a breath and goes again as the shoulders twist out of him. Again -
"There you go," Fang says, awestruck, as Ivan helps Izzy catch the slippery baby.
Izzy knows something's wrong the moment he pulls the baby up to his chest. The little face is ashen beneath the layer of gunk. The little limbs flop limply.
Izzy shouts hoarsely.
"Iz," Fang says. Izzy can barely hear him over the roar in his ears. He grabs his discarded shirt and rubs down the baby as hard as he dares. He nudges open the tiny mouth and swipes his fingers through the blood and mess that's made its way inside. Surely that's the solution, that'll fix it, but no, the baby's still.
No.
Izzy twice watched Jack give a man his breath when they were on Hornigold's crew together. Only once did it work, but Izzy's never forgotten it, the way Jack covered the man's nose and breathed into his mouth more tenderly than he kissed.
The baby's mouth is so small when Izzy covers that soft nose and blankets the gray mouth with his own. He's terrified of exhaling too deeply, so he breathes as gently as he can. The tiny chest rises and falls with each of his breaths. Izzy and the baby are still connected by the thick cord.
You were just safe , Izzy thinks frantically. I kept you safe for months and months. You kicked me every night, you fierce little thing. Please, don't do this. Don't, don't, don't.
"Boss," Fang says thickly. Izzy jolts upright with a snarl. The motion pulls the baby up to his shoulder -
Where the little thing coughs wetly, thrashes once, then wails.
Izzy presses his forehead to his child's forehead and feels each puff of their breath on his cheek as they scream at him. He forgets Fang and Ivan are bracketing him. They don't matter. Only the squalling babe with Edward's liquid-dark eyes matters.
Izzy speaks words that have hidden inside him out of necessity for years. His lips brush his baby's face like a kiss with each word: "Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech haolam, shehecheyanu v'kiy'manu v'higiyanu laz'man hazeh."
The little boy squirms and fusses. At least Izzy's going to assume he's a boy for now. Safer to be a boy on the sea. He's tiny and wrinkled and a little misshapen. Somehow he smells better than anything Izzy's ever smelled before, despite the gore left on the crown of his head. "My good lad," Izzy says, and starts shaking uncontrollably.
"Easy there," Fang says. He's still supporting Izzy's weight. Ivan ties off the cord with a length of string and cuts through it with a knife. There's a terrible moment when Izzy's body squeezes tight again, fighting to expel the afterbirth, and Izzy nearly vomits on his child's head. But the moment passes, and suddenly Izzy's being laid back against a hastily-arranged nest of blankets and towels while Ivan gently cleans Izzy up.
Izzy barely cares. He's only got eyes for the warm baby pressed to his bare chest. His curls, eyes, and coloring are Ed's, but his nose and furrowed brow are all Izzy. "My boy," Izzy says quietly. In a whisper, so Ivan and Fang can't hear the name Izzy wants to keep secret for now, he adds, "Malachi."