#uncertain so the usual 'if u wanna reblog and tag it as the ship name go for it also thank u for the reblog' applies to this

[izzy-b-hands]

Stoned, working myself up to do my T shot (where's Roach to do it for me when I need him?), and instead of getting that done I wrote this thing* instead.

*thing here meaning a more passiveish voice from Ed's POV mini fix it, focusing on Ed's feelings and thoughts and grief and regret in the immediate Izzy being saved but still in early recovery period. Blackhands with the vaguest hint of potential steddyhands.

Please forgive any formatting errors; I'm publishing this on mobile (and will get this up on AO3 too at some point.) I'll try to check later on desktop and address any errors though.

He hasn't washed his hair yet. 

He will, eventually. 

But as long as Izzy's blood is in his hair, there's proof that it's all real. That it happened, and that Izzy is still there and breathing.

It was a very, scarily close call, per Roach. 

But Izzy is alive. Wounded, hurting, but thus far seemingly on the mend. He spends most of the days resting on the ship (anchored near the little island that holds the rundown house they want to make into an inn. As soon as Izzy is better, at least.) The nights, as Jim, Archie, and Frenchie relay it, are harder. They take turns staying up with Izzy, apparently, when he can't sleep. 

He offers to take a turn, be added to the rotation. He means it in genuine goodwill, and out of fear that Izzy might still slip away in the night, somehow. 

Jim's knife is at his throat before he can blink, and that's answer enough. 

There's a lot of blame. Fair blame, but no easier to bear. On himself and Stede for not checking Ricky over for weapons, for having Izzy and others more or less lead the charge when it should have been them. 

On himself, for not moving from Izzy's right away, to let Roach in to work to save him. It hadn't been a conscious choice, though he can't seem to get any of them to understand it. 

Roach had shoved him aside just as he'd caught the glimmer of the ring around Izzy's scarf. And it had made him pause, still in the way, as he had realised he wasn't sure where his matching ring was (with a tiny but pretty amethyst stone.) Rings they'd exchanged years ago now, despite never clearly labeling what they had.

Stede's used the term ‘husbands’ when they've talked in the nights since the escape. To clarify and make sure they're settled on the same page about each other and Izzy and how they're going to proceed. It feels the most fitting word, but it hurts the worst. 

The ring, he thinks, is still somewhere among what little loot they didn't toss or sell. He wouldn't have gotten rid of it, no matter what. He thinks he knows at least that much about himself for sure. 

If he finds it; when he finds it; it might be thin enough to thread into a braid in his hair, or fit over the fabric when he wears Stede's scarf. 

He wants to be wearing it when he sees Izzy again. Not when Izzy is sleeping and unaware of his visits during the day, but awake and maybe willing to talk. 

To let him apologise, practice in action, because if anyone would let him treat their apology as ‘practice’ it would be Izzy. Just so long as he knows it's real this time. 

He fidgets in the wooden chair near Izzy's cot, threading his fingers together, knowing they're clean, but still seeing only Izzy's blood on them.