It's not that Ed becomes the man he was before; he's someone else entirely. Someone Izzy has never met in person, someone he has secretly, shamefully dreamed of and openly, honestly disdained in turn. His expression is open and kind, his voice low and soft. He's gentle and courteous and doesn't assume his welcome or that his intentions are clear unspoken.

He approaches the woman cautiously and light-footed despite his heavy boots, soothing her all the way. "It's okay, we're not gonna hurt you, okay? That baby's coming right now, isn't it? Yeah, you feel it, huh? I can help. It's okay, I know how."

Trust is easy to gain in a situation with no other option. Izzy has already learned that for himself well before now. Still, it's almost horrific to see it happen from the other end. By all rights, she shouldn't trust him. Izzy almost wants to tell her so. But he, too, knows she has very little other option, and despite everything Izzy still trusts Ed for himself. And he- He hopes, maybe... Maybe Ed will hold this life in his hands and some of it will spread into him like sickness in reverse.

She drops her weapon with a clatter, sobbing, "It's early!"

"I know," Ed says, though of course there's no way he could. "I know, stress can do that. That's my fault, but it's okay. I'm going to help, I'm gonna make this right, okay? You're gonna be just fine, you're both gonna be fine. I'm gonna take care of you."

Feelings Izzy can't begin to name (at the time - later he knows them just fine: envy, longing, desire) surge in him so acutely he feels fucking sick from it. He watches nearly unblinking, rapt, as Ed gets the woman arranged on her back on the floor with her shoulders slightly propped up against the wall. As he sinks to his knees and rests his hands gently on each of hers to spread them wide enough to tuck himself between. As he softly tells her he's going to lift her skirts now, and is that okay? As he waits for her nod before he does so, conscientiously keeping his touch light and fleeting as he pushes aside the folds of fabric, as he pulls down her stockings and her shift to bare her thighs, her vulnerable skin pale and pink under the occasional, inevitable brush of his fingertips.

"Get us some hot water, Iz," Edward says, but Izzy is so profoundly captivated by the scene he's too distracted feeling Ed's hands on him instead to hear. "Izzy."

"What?" Izzy mumbles, struggling to blink back to reality. His heart races at the clear irritation in Ed's tone; he tries to pay attention.

"Fucking hot water, man," Ed snaps, glaring, making Izzy flinch again. "It's not a fucking difficult concept."

"Yes- I mean, no- Yes, Captain." Izzy stumbles backward out the door of the cabin. Ed has turned away from him again already before he makes it, back to the laboring woman to ask her if she's had a midwife, if she's been taught how to breathe, to tell her it's okay if she hasn't, that he can show her, that they can do it together.

On deck, the chaos seems to be approaching its end. Bodies litter the deck, most of them clad in blue or red, not black. Something is wrong with Izzy right now, though, and he can't quite feel thankful for that. Can hardly process it, really, amidst the stench of sea brine mixed with gore and the last dying screams of battle, and the screams of life from behind him, and Edward's touch in his head, on his nerves... Without much realizing he's doing it, Izzy puts a trembling hand on the inside of his own thigh.

"You okay, Boss?" someone asks. Izzy looks at them but doesn't see them for several long moments. Slowly, the random colors and shapes form themselves into Fang, brow creased with clear concern.

"Need hot water," Izzy tells him blankly. He breathes deep, stops his shaking by force of will, takes his hand off his leg only to thoughtlessly put it back against his belly instead. "Fucking twat decided to deliver a fucking baby."

"What?" says Jim, resolving into existence - or just into his awareness, in their case it could be either - on Izzy's other side.

"A fucking baby," Izzy repeats. It's not a fucking difficult concept, supplies Izzy's mind, ringing clear in both his voice and Ed's. But Jim has held Izzy's growing hair back for him while he was sick all night long from fever, held his hand while Ivan had debrided Izzy's toe when it had gone bad even though they'd gagged all through and couldn't look, continued telling Bonnet's silly stories in a cracked voice even though they knew he was lingering in the shadows to listen in. So he can't quite bring himself to say it out loud.

Izzy stumbles below deck to the galley. He puts some water on, everything slightly surreal from being on the wrong ship, from knowing the battle isn't quite done yet and the place isn't captured and so what the fuck is he doing in the god damn galley with the fucking water on. Ed didn't say how much he needed, so Izzy just makes a pot.

He nearly spills it on himself when he gets back into the Captain's cabin, only to see Ed with his head between the laboring woman's legs and showering her with effusive praise, delivered directly to her fucking pussy.

"You're doing so well," he says, sounding genuinely fucking thrilled with her, in between her screams. "That's it, good girl. Keeping going, just like that, perfect. You're so strong, sweetheart, you're doing so great for me. Keep breathing- Yes! Good job, that's exactly right."

Suddenly, Izzy is a green new sailor again, hopelessly exhausted after his first day swabbing and struggling in vain to keep up with bigger and better men. His entire fucking body aches, he's never been so weak-limbed, he couldn't think or walk in a straight line if his life depended on it. He hurts in places inside him that he'd forgotten about years ago.

Somehow, Izzy gets the water to Ed and then tucks himself away at a safe distance, though he has no memory of doing either. He watches the labor from averted eyes, doing a much poorer job of breathing than the woman who has an actual reason for her difficulty. All through, Edward coaches and encourages her, and tells her effusively about how her baby has hair already when it breaches. He must have been truthful when he told her he knew how to help, because everything seems to go fucking perfectly, and quickly too as far as what little Izzy knows about it. Though the time has passed strangely for Izzy, they haven't been interrupted so it can't be too much longer than it'd take the crew to round up the loot.

"Look at him," Edward says when it's done, when the baby is out and crying and he's separated them with the same knife he used to sever Izzy's second toe. "Look, he's so beautiful. You did such a good job, mom. You were so fucking brave, so strong, and look what you did! So fucking proud of you, babe."

Izzy looks directly again then, neck and jaw both painfully stiff. The water - lukewarm now - is poured over the baby, over Edward's bloody hands, then over the mother's cunt and belly and thighs, the messed floor underneath her. Edward tucks the woman's child into her arms, brushes her sweaty hair out of her face, all the while continuing to praise her strength, her courage, her virtue, how perfectly she'd followed his orders, what a wonderfully good job she's done. He helps her to sit up, helps her to free her breasts from her bodice, helps her to arrange the baby so she can hold him up to suckle without dropping him in her exhaustion.

Ed gets to his feet with a groan and a worrying crack. He makes his way, subtly limping, over to Izzy and regards his certain pallor without sympathy.

"Never seen birth before?" he asks with a touch of derision.

It's not a lie for Izzy to tell him no. Still, Izzy can't quite meet his eyes to say it. Although lately, Izzy often doesn't dare do that anyway.

No, the only birth Izzy has ever been present for was his own. Only because when chance had called up his number, Izzy had not been strong or brave or virtuous or any good at doing what he was told. He'd been weak and scared and unbearably young and dirt fucking poor and alone, and he'd gone to an apothecary instead of a midwife. He feels just as sick now as he had then, swallowing again and again to keep from vomiting. Hand against his belly where it had hurt. Where it hurts again now, reawakened after a fucking decade since the last time he bled.

"Get a grip," Ed tells him. "Don't you have a job to do?"

"Yes, Captain," Izzy says, and fails quite spectacularly to do either.

Whatever joy Ed might have felt that day he leaves there with the new mother and her beautiful, perfect son. In his cabin back on the Revenge, as barren as Izzy thought age and herb had made him (as barren, he would learn later, as he knew himself to be until he'd convinced himself otherwise), Ed is dead-eyed again, until Izzy once more allows him to make use of Izzy's body.

Whether Ed takes pleasure or flesh from him, Izzy can hardly tell the difference anymore.