Author's Note: It's that time again! No, not Valentine's Day...well, yes, okay, it is. But it's also time for The Fireplace's Writing Challenge! I thought I'd be consistent and enter, so here it is.
Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, the characters of Pirates of the Caribbean. They are the property of themselves. I did, however, construct Maggie Fallon all in my iddy-biddy little head, so I guess she's mine. That is all.
Things You Won't Remember in the Morning
He's got a bottle of rum--the cheap kind--clenched in his fist, and the poor bloke can barely handle himself, much less the liquor in his gut. He's just stumbling around, just looking for the right place to fall. And I'm waiting for him to knock his head good against the ground.
I bet his coat was really fine, before he started wearing it to bed. I bet his boots was real fine, too. Maybe I'm half-daft, because I've been wrong a time or two, but I swear some fellows you can just look at and see their class. I guess, maybe for my own sake, I want him to be one of them. When you've lived all your years in Tortuga, with a mother who spites you for being born and a father you don't even know, I guess you just start to hope you'll run into those fine kind of folks. There's something fascinatin' about the odd. And this fellow certainly is, in his own sort of way. In Tortuga, oddity's the regular.
He hits the ground like somebody shot him. Just collapses. He barely makes a thud against all the other noises--the drinking and the singing and the what have you--but you better believe that a fallen drunk'll draw every idle thief in the town. I got one, dulling knife that I can't use too well, but I got it and it's mine. Folks is least likely to disturb somebody with a blade. Most folks don't want trouble, even here.
So I kneel down beside the fellow, and the bastard went and fell face-down. I could let him go--leave him to somebody with the muscle to push him over. He ain't a big man, but he certainly ain't slight, neither. He's got good shoulders--broad and strong the way a man ought to have, and I wonder that he didn't have enough food in his gut to reckon on the rum. And me, I've also had some hair of the dog that bit me, and I think maybe with a little will and my measely arms I might just get this fellow on his back.
"Hey, Fallon."
The words to make your blood run cold. I don't want to turn and look, so I pretend I don't hear.
"Maggie Fallon, I'm speakin' to you!"
I ain't the sort to believe in bravado--I'm a lady, sir, and a coward as I ought be. There's a right pecking order hereabouts, and I ain't the one to go unsettling it. So I look over my shoulder and look right into the Colonel's good eye.
The Colonel's an ugly fellow if I ever saw one, short and squat like a hog and with a face like one, too--after it's been pickled for market. He's got scars from the top of his head to his chin--long, skinny scars that makes a girl wonder what he's been through. He's got the one good brown eye and a useless, glassy-lookin' blue one, and he thinks it's awful frightening of himself to stare at you with both of 'em. He's that scary kind of ugly that would rub off if he hadn't his sore disposition. He's a pimp, and he thinks because he does the job for three different houses that he's got all of Tortuga in his fat little palm. I ain't the one to argue with him.
"I hear you," I tell him, calm as I can--but he's smiling with his yellow teeth 'cause my voice shakes. He likes bein' scary.
"I'd likely give two shillings for that bloke's coat."
And I have to sort of sigh with relief, and even smile a bit. "Ay, Colonel. I'll have it to you by morning."
He's got a grin to frighten children as he lumbers off to the next picker, making his desires clear. He's a right useless man, I hear tell--from Scarlett at the bordello, and a couple other disrespectable girls, too. They say he satisfies himself with the money and such things as he takes from those like me, and has no use of women. It's as well. But now I can't leave this wretch alone as I ought.
In my own odd way, I'm happy I don't have to look on his face as I tug the sleeves off his arms. It's a simple task, and I find myself happy he landed on his face. So I sit there for a spell, holding his jacket that stink of rum and smoke and garbage because I don't want to leave him to another picker just yet. I make good and sure he's got nothing in his pockets, because the Colonel oughtn't get more for those two shillings than what was reckoned. And then I find myself right grounded to my spot.
He's been layin' facedown for a little time now, and it scares me to think that perhaps he drunk himself to his grave. So I pick up his head and turn it to the side, so he might rest on his cheek and breathe better. The glow from the tavern is good and bright, and his dirty face looks sad to me. He looks older than I would've thought, but times are hard in Tortuga. And maybe it's just all the dust in the lines of his face. He ain't shaved in...well, likely in some time. And he's got a lovely nose, if I can say something so odd. What you'd call regal, like a king or a duke. And now I wished I hadn't turned his face and seen how sad it was, how dignified it ought've been. Because...blast it, perhaps it is my woman's heart, but I feel right sorry for a sort like him.
I move his dirty hair from his face because he looks like a child--like a lost little boy in the bad part of town. And it's probably nutty of me to think so, because I'm certain he's more than a few years on me.
He moans.
The noise catches me off guard, and I think to scramble to my feet. But the thought don't reach my legs by the time his eyes are open and starin' at me. I ought to take off, but I'm frozen in my place, holding on to his own jacket and staring back at him.
He doesn't say a thing--not the smallest word or noise. But he stares at me like he knows, like a man who's seen the world and feels its pains--all of them, the way a priest does. You know, not just hurtin' for himself, but hurtin' because children in Africa ain't been baptized and somebody somewhere in London had to dig a sandwich from a rubbage heap. And he's lookin' at me with eyes that see and I'm lookin' back because I don't know how to turn away.
"Elizabeth...?"
It takes me a second to know what he just whispered. I look at him 'cause I don't know what it is I should say to the man. I ain't Elizabeth. I ain't even the Elizabeth type.
"It's been so long...so long..."
His voice is croaking and strained, but he's got a pretty way of talking...a proper way. And I smile because I was right about him being a gentleman. He turns over to his back with a look on his face like it pains him, and all I can feel is bad and stupid for not leaving him when the time was sure, because I'm certainly too weak of heart to let the fellow alone now.
"I would never presume to..." his words muddle and slur in his mouth, and he blinks until he's ready to start again. "But will you lay here beside me, Elizabeth?"
I look at the tavern and then look back at him, the poor fellow desperate as a beggar and his coat in my arms. I ain't the sort to go layin' about with any man--I'm a good girl, you know, and my ma comes from decent folk. But the next minute I'm layin' down beside him, putting my head on his shoulder and feeling his arms wrap warm about me, all the while tellin' myself that his Elizabeth's a respectable girl, too.
He starts to babbling again, his hands brushing over my hair in the softest way, the sweetest way. And I'm a silly girl ill-fit for this business, 'cause his words make the tears fill my eyes.
"I always hoped...oh, Elizabeth! I always hoped you would find me. But when you chose that blacksmith...Will Turner...When you...But I always hoped to see you again, to hear your voice...Do you love me, Elizabeth?"
I look up at him. I can feel his heart beatin' beneath my chin and I try to nod, for he'll sure know I'm not his sweetheart if I speak. But he touches my face real tender, with eyes so sorrowful I got to say the words, I got to see the troubles go from his face.
"I love you," I tell him, careful of my lilt.
He blinks, like he don't understand. "Won't you call me James?"
So I say, "I love you, James."
He's lookin' at me and smiling. For a second there, he looks free and regal again, like the man who used the wear his fine coat. His teeth are straight and fine and his eyes sparkle, clever and smart. He sighs, like I've taken the burdens from his mind. And then his head sinks and his eyes close, because he's gone and passed out.
I sit up, slow as I can, sure not to disturb him. He looks at peace where he lays, the last of his smile still on his mouth. He thinks he's seen his lady, and thinks she loves him. At first I feel the guilt in me, knowin' I had no right to tell a man such words as weren't mine to say. But the drink's sung its lullabye, and when he wakes and he remembers...if he remembers...it will be no more than a dream. And I fancy bein' a good dream is another thing entirely from pretendin' to be his sweetheart.
So I stand up and feel I've been clutching his coat this whole time. Standing in the light of the tavern, I see better now that it's a Navy jacket, and the braidin' means he's got some rank. I look at him again, and I try to walk away, but I don't have the heart in me to take it. So I kneel beside him and put it under his head, and it took me to kiss him just then. I haven't the sand to kiss him on his lips, so I kiss him on the forehead and hurry away.
I curse myself by the Holy Virgin, because I've such a foolish way about me. I tell myself I'll try at the tavern tomorrow for barwenching--that I'll wash my hands of this thieving, and do something close to decent for my bread and butter. I've never been much at it anyway...and then, to go and lay beside a drunk, and listen to his sad words and start to feel for his troubles. And not even to take the coat! That's two shillings I'm out of tomorrow...But I'll make it back at the tavern.
A man like that--a gentleman, such as he is--who's lost his lover to a blacksmith and has such a regal way about him, deserves to keep his officer's coat, says I.
end.