A/N: If you recall from RUINATION, the innkeeper (as a young girl) noticed the level of drink in the wine and rum bottles Barbossa had in his room, and characterized him as "a man who sips rather than swills." She was correct then, and it remains true now, which contributes to his getting exceptionally drunk on far less than other men might imbibe.
Idle speculation: Jack Sparrow may be a rum-guzzler, but I think Barbossa's smarter than that. As a no-nonsense captain and leader, he drinks very little while at sea for the sake of keeping a clear head. As a matter of daily course, his thirst-quencher of choice is low-proof ale, and he doses tankards of water with just a bit of wine or rum to kill the nasty taste (water gets pretty gruesome the longer it's stored in a barrel), but not much more. It results in his tolerance for alcohol being fairly low. Why did he begin his binge drinking before he left the Pearl this time? Only he knows that… but since he basically drank himself into a blackout, I don't think he remembers.
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UNTHINKABLE
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She's so happy, knowing that Barbossa is about to arrive.
The innkeeper neatens her hair and puts on one of her best dresses the moment she spots the Black Pearl's sails in the harbor. It won't be long before the cockboats tie up to the docks and her Captain will come up the hill. There's only one lodger, so she's not obliged to pay much attention to the business of running the inn, save for making sure she has a good meal waiting, along with a soft, warm bed for her beloved.
She quickly does her work, smiling and singing, and then she waits.
And waits.
And waits.
She feeds her guest, and it gets dark, but Barbossa still hasn't knocked on her door.
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The innkeeper knows she should let it go — that Barbossa will come home in his own good time — but her heart keeps telling her something is wrong. "I'll be gone for an hour or so," she tells Cora as she wraps herself in her shawl. "There's just the one guest; I'm sure you can take care of anything he might want."
"Yes'm."
The noise of the town gets louder and louder as the innkeeper descends the steep lane; more boisterous than usual, as it always is when a ship comes in. She's pondering whether or not to be brave and ask a passerby if he's seen a man in a big feathered hat, when she suddenly spots Barbossa, blind drunk and staggering, and he's not alone: stumbling around the marketplace, he's got one arm slung around the neck of a painted woman, the other hand squeezing and pinching the naked breast exposed by her half-open bodice.
He doesn't see the innkeeper, nor the sick jealousy on her face, but the lone crew member — the Black Pearl's quartermaster — who knows who she is takes it upon himself to step in the instant he sees her. "Cap'n," he says quietly. "Cap'n, what're ye doin'? Have ye forgot where we are?"
Barbossa is drunker than anyone has ever seen him, and the reason for the question goes right over his head. "Ashore!" he slurs, his legs wobbling, barely holding him up. "I ain't on th' Pearl, so: I's ashore, I tell ye!"
The other man turns and runs toward the transfixed innkeeper. "Come away, good lady," he pleads. "Don't know why he's acting like this, but… oh lady, please, ye mustn't cry!"
"You tell him to stay away," she says, her voice shaking. "When the liquor wears off and he gets sick and thinks I'll take care of him, you tell him I won't do it! If he's in my town and that's the woman he wants, then he's welcome to her, but don't dare think he can come crawling back to me!"
The crewman reaches out and takes her hands. "Don't do this," he begs. "Th' rest of th' crew… they don't know who ye are, but I do. They don't know what ye mean t' th' Cap'n, but I do. Please, lady, don't turn 'im away."
"I couldn't mean much if he'd prefer that whore to me!"
"Bollocks!" The crewman is too beside himself to worry about any indelicacy. "I knows 'im better'n he knows hisself, and I tell ye true: he loves ye so much, he's sick with it. Mayhap… mayhap 'tis why he's actin' like this."
"I don't care why; I only care that he's…" The innkeeper presses a hand over her belly, and she's looking decidedly green. "Excuse me, but I have to go home."
"If ye must, then be careful, good lady," — the man makes one last try — "… an' please… when he comes t' ye, as he will, don't turn 'im away."
She knows she should thank the crewman for his concern, but she's too near to fainting; makes it only halfway up the hill before she falls to her knees, sick to her stomach at what she's seen. "Damn you, Hector!" she weeps as she wipes her mouth with her apron, only to get sick again. "Damn you to hell!"
The innkeeper has no memory of making it the rest of the way; finds herself in her bedroom, tearing off her pretty dress and climbing into an old linen smock and kerchief: the servant's garb that Barbossa has always said wasn't worthy of her. Then she goes down to her kitchen and sets to work, wishing she had a dozen lodgers to take her mind off her misery.
She works well into the night, carrying water from the well, scrubbing pots and pans, sweeping floors; anything that will keep her busy and tire her out. She works nonstop as it gets later and later, until she's dropping from exhaustion, and still she works some more. In the end, she's so dog-tired that she falls asleep on the stairs, still clutching her dustpan.
"What be this?" comes a gruff, tired voice from above her some hours later. "Dove, 'tis near dawn; why are ye not in yer proper bed?"
The innkeeper wakes with a start, her eyes blazing, to find Barbossa kneeling beside her, looking exhausted and more than a little sick. "You dare…?" she cries, after which she dashes the contents of the dustpan full in his face.
Were she anyone else, he might beat her to death without a second thought; as it is, he knocks the dustpan from her hand, coughing heavily, and wipes his face off with his sleeve. "Ye gone cracked, girl?" he rasps, shaking his head, then flicking at his beard to get the crumbly dirt out. "What th' fuck was that for?"
"Get out of my house!"
"What? Why? I only just got here!"
"You were here yesterday! I saw you last night, and I saw who you were with!"
It's one of the rare occasions when Barbossa cringes upon being told of his actions. "Aye, well… can't say as I much remember it. Had rather a lot t' drink…"
"That's no fucking excuse, you bastard!"
Barbossa draws back in surprise. "Now, now, Dove: language…"
"Don't you lecture me about my language, and don't call me 'Dove'…!" The innkeeper breaks down, her distress beyond all control, and starts pounding on Barbossa's chest. "I never… ever!… say anything about the women you keep anywhere else — never! — but how could you come here… here…?"
Somewhere in his aching head, Barbossa is starting to realize he's done something terribly wrong, and how hurt she is; hurt, and jealous. He wants to be the old, devil-may-care Barbossa and say that he'll have no truck with jealousy, that she doesn't own him, and that he'll have any damn woman he pleases, whenever and wherever it suits him, but he can't get the words out because they're nothing but lies. The innkeeper is no ordinary woman and never has been; she's the one person he cares for most in the world; someone for whom he would give his life to protect from harm; the only one he wishes never to hurt. What the hell have I done? he thinks dismally, wishing his midsection would stop turning over even as he knows it would be a small punishment indeed if he spent the next month vomiting up his disgust at himself. All I know is I got so shite-faced snockered that I couldn't keep me breeches buttoned. Fucking Christ… I don't even recall th' woman — nothin' about it 'cept there was one — but I see good an' way too clear how sick m' poor Dove feels about it.
In spite of his acute hangover and the increasingly active collywobbles in his stomach, Barbossa lets the innkeeper keep whaling away at him, even when it feels like she might break his collarbone and her nails will flay his skin. Worst of all, though, is when she stops railing and begins to sob, for the heat and salt of her tears affect him in a way he hadn't thought possible. "Please, Dove," he begs. "Please… whatever I done… an' whoever I done it with, for I truly don't recall… I never meant t' cause ye pain; not you, of anyone. I don't even 'member leavin' th' ship or how or why I got so drunk afore I did…"
The innkeeper takes one final thump at Barbossa before collapsing against him, her arms around his waist. "Why?" she sniffles. "I've tried so hard to be good to you, Hector; why can I not be enough for you when you come here?"
Ignoring the dirt on his hands, Barbossa strokes her face, then pulls off her kerchief and smooths down her hair. "Ye've always been enough for me, Dove; d' ye not know that? Have I not made it plain?"
"Then why…?"
" 'Cause I were stupid an' drunk, and a man'll do bloody doltish things when he has too much of th' drink in him."
"So am I to worry about that every time you come here… if indeed you do come anymore?"
"Oh, darlin'… darlin'… d' ye really think I'd give up me refuge, or the sweet Dove what keeps it warm an' ready for me?"
"Is that the only reason you come: for the place?"
Barbossa presses his forehead to the innkeeper's. "Such a question bain't worthy for ye t' ask," he says quietly, "not when ye know… when ye know…" When ye know what a hold ye have on me heart, for now an' always.
He tries to kiss her, but she pulls away. "Forgive me, Hector," she says, "but you must do something for me first: wash yourself and rinse your mouth of that other woman, or else I can't… I just can't."
He nods, accepting a large tankard of lemon water which he sloshes through his mouth several times and spits out the window, getting one soft, if hesitant, kiss in return. "Ye'll have t' do some washin' yerself," he observes, not unkindly, "as th' dust from th' pan's made ye near as dirty as me."
"I'll bring the tub up and haul the water…"
"I'll carry th' tub an' help wi' th' buckets," Barbossa cuts in, hoping it will help toward getting him back in her good graces, " 'else ye'll be at it well past breakfast." Then he gives the innkeeper a hopeful smile. "Will ye bathe me as always?"
In this, he's to be disappointed. "Not this time," the innkeeper tells him. "Please… understand."
Next time, he thinks, trying to keep a positive spin on the situation. All right. She won't stay angry; I know it.
She mustn't. Please, Lord Almighty, she mustn't. What have I done?
By the time Barbossa comes out of his room — the innkeeper won't allow him in hers, not yet — he does feel rather more refreshed, though his head still aches, he's more nervous than he wants to be, and his stomach isn't up for more breakfast than a piece of toasted bread. "Ye've fed yer lodgers, then?" he asks in an effort to start the conversation.
"Mm-hm."
"Good. Sit down aside me now, will ye? Please?"
The innkeeper has used a wet cloth on her face and neck and hands, and redonned her kerchief to hide the dirt in her hair. "I should wash first."
"Ye look clean enough." Barbossa pats the table. "Please?"
She takes a chair, not next to, but across from him. "Hector, why? Have I not been good to you?"
" 'Course ye have, Dove, good as ye possibly could be an' far better'n I e'er deserved."
"I know I haven't the… the…" The innkeeper struggles to find a description. "I don't have the beauty and the arts of the fancy ladies, but just for the short time you're here, could you not be content with me?"
Whatever Barbossa expected, it hadn't been this. "Is that what worries ye, sweet: ye think ye're not beautiful in m' sight, or that ye don't have the arts to do for me everythin' I could want?"
"Isn't that it?"
"Nay!" Barbossa reaches across the table, taking one of the innkeeper's hands between both of his own, and considers what he can or should say. Ye've taken just fine t' all I taught ye 'bout th' lustful arts an' always give what I ask; far more'n any prudish female ever would, he thinks. For starters, there be no clampin' yer pretty mouth shut 'gainst th' entrance of me cock or layin' back an' turnin' yer head away so's ye won't see me gruntin' above ye. I see yer delight in all th' ways I touch an' take ye, an' ye ne'er hesitate t' talk or cry out in yer pleasure. Ye think I need some whore t' do better'n that?
"Nay," he says again, more softly. "There be nothin' a wh… one of those could give me that ye don't give a dozen times better an' with more care, an' ye may b'lieve me on that. An' please… ye must b'lieve also, for on me life, 'tis the truth: I don't recall what happened or who with. What I do know is I were a fool t' drink so much that I were stopped from comin' straight to m' beautiful Dove." For the first time in his life, Barbossa is completely, truly ashamed of his behavior. "I be at a loss, for I can do no more'n say I'm sorry an' beg yer forgiveness."
A tear rolls down the innkeeper's cheek. "You hurt me, Hector."
"I know, darlin'. I know. But can ye not forgive me anyway?" The innkeeper gets up and comes around to him, kneeling on the floor with her head on his lap. "There, now. Can't nothin' keep us on th' outs for long." Barbossa fingers a strand of her hair that has escaped from her kerchief. "Though I'll tell ye: seems me own hair is a mite cleaner'n yers at th' moment. Shall I bathe ye then, Dove? Will ye let me? I'll even haul th' water an' make it nice an' warm."
"Buying me off with a bath?"
"Aye. If ye like."
After dumping the dirty water from the window and taking the now-empty tub to the innkeeper's room, it takes little time for Barbossa to carry in half-a-dozen buckets of well water to fill it again, after which he sets a large kettle full of rainwater on the grate to heat. Three kettles later, and the tub is comfortably warm and ready. "Here, let me undress ye," he tells her. "Ye may keep yer shift if ye must, though I'd rather ye didn't."
"It's light out."
"Come now, Dove… ye think I don't know ev'ry bit of ye?" Barbossa walks around behind her, pressing his lips to her ear. "Mmm. Ye think I ain't seen an' felt an' tasted an' breathed in ev'ry sweet part? Would it make ye feel better if I were unclothed, too?"
It surprises him when the innkeeper whispers, "Not… just yet."
Well, bain't 'no,' he thinks. She'll come around.
Keep tellin' yerself that, idiot, an' pray ye're right.
He takes her clothes off down to her chemise, lingering over removing her stockings, kissing the inside of her knee. "Sure ye won't take th' rest off?" he coaxes.
The innkeeper doesn't answer, but delicately lifts the hem of her gown and steps into the water.
Barbossa sees instantly that there's no reason or rush to remove her undermost garment; not when it's thin and shows everything when wet; even more enticing than if she'd simply stripped it off. "Ye're such a beauty, Dove," he sighs in admiration, feeling his whole body begin to flush. "More'n I've ever seen. If ye b'lieve naught else, b'lieve this: there's been no woman as could inflame me the way you do; not in me whole life."
The innkeeper puts her hand up, then, threading her fingers through his beard. "I want to believe you, Hector."
"An' so ye may." Barbossa's breath comes harder as he slides a hand under her wet chemise in search of where she's even warmer and wetter. "I swear t' ye, darlin': so ye may…"
They don't talk much after that — there are only so many ways Barbossa can plead with the innkeeper to forgive his drunken stupidity; and, in any case, she doesn't want to hear another word about what happened, lest it call up sickening pictures in her head — so instead, they quietly enjoy with each other the simple pleasure of her bath. Barbossa's men would laugh themselves senseless if they could see him wielding the sponge in one hand, his other gently searching and stroking and appreciating his woman's body, and they'd wonder why he bothers when so many lovelier, livelier women would be ready to splay themselves out before him if only he pays enough.
All of his men would be laughing save one, the loyal quartermaster who's praying against hope that the unhappy innkeeper he last saw will find it in her heart to forgive his Captain's unthinkable — nay, unspeakable — blunder. Even if Barbossa himself won't voice or admit it, he knows the look of a man in love. "Don't turn 'im away, good lady," he whispers to the air, hoping there are gods who will hear him, and not yet knowing they already have. "Please, don't turn 'im away."
-oOo- FIN -oOo-