Any Parrot in a Storm
Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean and am sorely tempted to proclaim that this fic isn't a creation of mine either…
A/N: I wouldn't advise reading this, written as a request from PigeonJay Potter and Prisoner of Azkaban711, with the characters: Hector Barbossa, Mr Cotton's Parrot; alongside the prompts: Sex, Thatching and a request for the phrase 'Take 'em all down'.
Doesn't really matter about context, but if you're interested, this is set after the War Against Piracy, with the maelstrom at the end of At World's End. Barbossa is taking a moment in the Captain's cabin on the Black Pearl, after having taken his ship back from Jack, leaving him in Tortuga.
A long swig of rum preceded the drawn-out sigh that Hector gave as he relaxed fully into the Captain's chair, swinging his feet up onto the desk. Like it or not, Barbossa had to admit to himself that the years had crept up on him. No longer was he young, agile, 'hands-on-Hector', with each day bringing a race up the rigging or a dangerously compromising dance down the deck. Now his boundless energy had waned, his joints were more creak than bend and a desire to step back from life had visited him.
He couldn't let this show though. What use is a Captain if he's too tired, too old to run his ship? Especially one of the most fearsome Pirate Captains to ever have sailed each of the seven seas. No, better he keep remain as in control as possible, push himself to his limits and not let his thoughts of a quiet little retirement blossom in his actions. He might yet still get his long-desired end, of his inevitable death coming in the form of a heroic battle, a tale that would be told in dramatic whispers, in ports covering the four corners of the world. Aye, Hector decided. Better that than a torturous slide into oblivion in the wake of an overabundance of wrinkles and the depreciation of every aspect of his Captain's persona that was so revered. He lifted the rum bottle to his lips, on the verge of drawing a sip of the golden ambrosia within, when-
"Ahoy Sailor!"
Startled, Hector dropped the bottle, as the tinny, screeching voice called across the room. He watched in dismay as the alcohol splashed forth, an amber stream arcing gracefully through the air, before soaking itself into the worn navy fabric of Barbossa's breeches.
"Ye poxy bilge-rat!" He cursed, glaring fiercely at the culprit, a large blue and yellow plumed parrot perched on the curtain rail. "Lookit what ya done! Oughtta keelhaul ya fer that!"
When dabbing at the spilt liquid on his breeches with his sash proved ineffective, Hector cursed again and stood from the confines of the chair, intending to remove the offending article of clothing. However his action was halted, as his abrupt movement in standing from the chair had startled the bird. With a squawk, the parrot flailed its feathers, and gave an almost panicked cry of 'Parley!".
"It be a little pas' the time t' be askin' fer a parley, when you be already firing shots, ya scurvy dog!" Gnarled fingers fumbling at the laces of his breeches, he retaliated; his annoyance at the infernal animal bleeding through, making his tone biting and harsh. Finally, he managed to undo the stiff, salt-encrusted knot and breathed a sigh of satisfied relief as the sticky, damp material slid down his legs. Toeing off his boots, he let the soiled garment fall to the floor.
Sitting back in his chair, it was the rough scratching of the aged wood coming into contact with his bare behind that alerted him to just how exposed he was. Shiver his timbers, but it had been too long since the goods had been out. Between one disaster and another, it had been far too long to remember when he'd last enjoyed the company of a wench. He realised the relief he felt in letting things, ah… air a bit. Aye, and to ponder, he had Cotton's bleedin' parrot to thank for it…
The realisation caused a stirring in him, his cannon priming itself for action. Tipping his head back, and taking his Captainly duties in hand, Hector closed his eyes, letting his mind wander, like he had used to as a boy, laying on his straw pallet, staring up past the thatched roof of the family cottage, envisioning the stars.
But whether age or curse, he knew not what was against him, he found his ministrations to be inadequate. Slitting open his eyes, he cast around for inspiration. His gaze landed on the intruder perched on his curtain rail.
Against his will, his breath caught in his throat, the fire in his cannon reignited, as his eyes traversed the plumage of Cotton's parrot. Never before had he truly appreciated the rich splash of colour that the bird was. The glossy sheen of dazzling, beautiful plumage shined at him, and suddenly his weathered fingers ached to touch it.
Apparently feeling his ardent gaze, the parrot shifted, spreading his wings and downright preening, as it opened its beak with an exclamation of "Pretty bird!" Hector was lost. Grasping his big gun, he aimed, gasped, and gave a breathless cry of "Fire!", as he achieved his release.
A creeping sense of self-loathing clawed at him, as his breathing slowed and he slowly regained his senses. He glanced nervously at the door, ears straining to detect any sign of any passing crew member hearing anything. But no knock came, no accusation that he'd just done something ghastly.
Had he really been so desperate? Never again was he going to be able to gaze Cotton in the eye. Those plans of retiring to some little-known place suddenly seemed quite desirable now. Bugger it, if anyone dared say anything then well, he'd just take 'em all down...
As if sensing his self-damning thoughts, the bird gave what could almost be perceived as a shrug, shifting itself along the rail as it carelessly stated "Any port in a storm!"
Despite himself, Hector found a small smirk twisting his mouth at the somewhat absurd situation. Well, he thought, least it seems 'Hands-on-Hector' has still got it after all…