A/N: Quick one-shot about Norrington's first night in Tortuga after his resignation as Commodore, told from the point of view of a lowly barmaid. If I ever work up the motivation it might become an actual story, but for now it's just a snippet. Enjoy!
The port of Tortuga never truly slept. It simply cycled through various levels of debauchery and sin. Generally, during the day, a semblance of peace hung in the air as most of the inhabitants preferred to keep their wanton activities in the dark. That was not to say there was no wanton activity, but it was certainly handled more subtly and usually with less violence.
For this reason, Florence, generally known as Flo, was glad she mostly worked the tavern during the day, and had a few hours to herself in the early evening. Of course, she generally had to help Arabella with the infinitely rowdier night shift, but that was in the small hours before dawn, when most had gone home or fallen asleep.
"'nother over 'ere, Flo," croaked an older man at the bar, words slurred with drink. His face was obscured by a large salt-and-pepper beard and an utterly disgraceful broad-brimmed hat, which was so caked with dirt and grit and God-knows-what-else that its original color was undiscernible.
"Comin', Tumbler," she answered, her words tinged with the peculiar accent of the ill-educated, much the same as the old man's. She quickly filled his tankard with another round of rum. "How're you today, sir?" she inquired with a crooked grin. Tumbler was an old regular, and one of the only ones who could or would hold a decent, mostly coherent conversation.
"Awful, else I wouldn't be 'ere," he answered gruffly. Flo brushed back a strand of dark brown hair from her face and smiled, revealing two chipped teeth and a gap where one was missing altogether. Though she kept her hair in a bun on top of her head, she had nothing to properly fasten it in place, which resulted in quite a few wayward strands. It created the impression of a particularly top-heavy lion's mane.
"Why's that?" she asked, in genuine concern, despite the fact that Tumbler was generally there whether or not his day was going well. She pulled a filthy and tattered rag off of the waistband of her equally filthy and tattered apron and absently wiped away a splash of rum on the bar while waiting for his reply. He grunted.
"Me boy's run off and there ain't nobody to look after me no more," he groused.
"Run off? With who?" she gasped, pleased for the daily dose of gossip.
"The sea," he answered, looking wistfully into his tankard. Her interest quickly waned. Her personal experiences with the sea were terrible enough to make her question the sanity of anyone who was actually seduced by its siren call.
"Ah," she murmured, and moved off. It was not that she did not sympathize, but she simply didn't know what to say, and he seemed content to drown himself in drink anyway. She sighed a bit. Perhaps she really didn't sympathize, much. After all, she'd heard this story millions of times, and her reaction from the very first had always been the same: why? Certainly she had no great love of Tortuga herself, but she was even less fond of the sea. Or rather, what tended to happen there. Drowning, pirate attacks, naval attacks, storms, the atrocious food…just to name a few. She'd had quite enough of it in the nightmare journey which landed her in Tortuga in the first place. In her opinion, it simply wasn't worth it, even if seafaring was the only way to really change in the world. She was happy where she was. Even if sometimes she wished she-
She shook her head. She was happy where she was. That was all.
Just then, the door opened. She looked up and froze in surprise. A man had just walked in-nothing unusual about that. He looked haggard and worn and absolutely wretched-again, not unusual. What was unusual was his rumpled-but still relatively clean by Tortugan standards-Navy uniform. She took him in slowly. His face was obscured by the black tricorn hat and-again somewhat rumpled-powdered wig he wore, with a few days of stubble on his chin. His coat was a deep blue, with gold trim and a cream-white collar that was quite stained. She could see that he was carrying a satchel beneath his coat. Overall, the impression was of a once proud and high-ranking man beaten and brought down on hard times. Such cases generally ended up in Tortuga. Dozens every day, in fact. She saw it constantly and never felt more than a moment's pity for them.
But that uniform. She knew it would mean trouble. Even though it was likely he was no longer an officer-active soldiers did not allow themselves to fall apart such-the sight of anything even remotely resembling a uniform was sure to cause upset. And if anybody decided to take umbrage at a soldier brat in the Faithful Bride on her watch, Phil-the owner-would have her neck. She watched the man uneasily as he walked tiredly over to her at the bar.
"A drink, if you will, madam," he requested as he sat down, head bowed. Even through his clipped and proper intonation he sounded weary, like a man who had lost everything and had nothing left to do but wait for death. She grabbed a tankard and a bottle of rum instinctively, but while her hands were under the counter, she leaned towards him.
"Do yeh have any idea how much trouble that smart-lookin' getup of yours is going to get yeh into?" she hissed.
He hardly spared her a glance. "Quite a bit, I imagine," he answered resignedly, though with the slightest hint of wry humor beneath that. She pursed her lips.
"That's right. You're jus' lucky it's day now, day shouldn't be too bad, but come tonight-well…," she trailed off, trying to impress upon him how dangerous his situation was. She filled the tankard and placed it before him.
"So I've heard," he answered, reaching for the drink. He took a drought and seemed content to say nothing more. She stared at him for a while, irritated by his lack of concern and confused by her sudden concern for him.
"That's it? Yeh've heard that you're goin' to get the livin' shit beat out of you tonight and all your possessions stolen, and you're jus' gonna sit here and drink?" she exclaimed, still trying to keep her voice low.
"That is the long and short of it, madam," he said, sounding almost exasperated by her. He hadn't even looked at her properly yet, eyes fixed on the drink in his hand. She chewed her lip, trying to think of a new tactic.
"How do yeh plan," she started triumphantly, "to pay for your drinks, if yeh 'ave nothing?"
That gave him pause. "Manual labor?" he tried, almost flippantly, except for his deadpan expression. She snorted.
"Not flobberin' likely. Our business may be mainly with pirates, but they do 'ave gold."
"Stolen gold," he sneered. She shrugged.
"Don't matter. Point is, they can pay. You, on the other 'and, don't seem the stealin' type, and there ain't nobody lookin' to hire a Navy boy, ex or not."
He frowned at her-or rather, at his drink, while he considered her point. Eventually he sighed.
"I have enough for this drink," he said quietly, and fished out a coin. She took it up with a sigh.
"Well…I sugges' keepin' your money hidden," she advised reluctantly, and walked away, feeling curiously upset. She didn't know why she cared so much for the well-being of this one Navy man, when she had seen hundreds of others in his situation-if not his occupation-and felt nothing. Perhaps it was the idea that his uniform would more easily mark him as a scapegoat, or his overall pathetic appearance, or his resigned apathy.
As the day wore on, she kept an eye on him. Not because she wanted to, but because her gaze was continually drawn by the still-bright colors of his coat. At least, that was what she told herself. He sat there for the entire afternoon, nursing his one drink pensively. She wondered idly what he was thinking about, how he'd come to ruin. Then her attention would be pulled to a customer as more and more men filed in with the setting sun. She lost track of him for a time, busy filling tankards and eventually giving up on that and handing out whole bottles.
About half an hour past sunset, she heard shuffling steps from the hallway behind the bar.
"Mornin'," yawned a voice behind her, as usual. She turned to see Arabella standing there, hair mussed, clothes rumpled, with a sleepy smile. She returned it and pulled an apron out from under the counter.
"Evenin'," she corrected, as always, handing Arabella the apron. She tied it on automatically and joined her behind the bar, the grogginess instantly leaving her.
"Room's yers," she muttered to her, again as always. Flo smiled.
"Thanks," she replied, but a commotion to the left distracted them both. She bit her lip-that was where the Navy man had been sitting. "I'll get it," she murmured to Arabella, and grabbed a bottle of rum-it often made for a good bargaining chip to stop or postpone brawls-before rushing over.
She found the Navy man sprawled on the ground, surrounded by three men of considerably less repute, as she'd expected.
"We don' take kindly to your colors 'round 'ere, mate," one spat, kicking him contemptuously. Flo knew she had precisely two seconds to stave off a beating, so she leaned over the bar and waved her arms at the men.
"Boys!" she half-shouted, wanting their attention but no one else's-it was messy enough as it was. "I know yeh don't like the look of them soldiers-I don't either, but Phil'll have all our heads if 'e finds out you drove away a payin' customer."
The three looked at her contemptuously, considering her words. The first-he seemed the oldest, with a scruffy beard and dirt-caked clothes-seemed to be their spokesperson, and he answered, "Yeh don' wan' his gold, filthy Navy scum-"
"Gold is gold," Flo answered shortly, "an' if you let this go I won't take yours for one round," she said, revealing the bottle she'd snagged. The man crossed his arms.
"Three rounds, for me an' me mates," he proposed. Flo glared at him.
"One round, for you and yours," she replied, hooking two more bottles off the shelf behind her. He picked up the drinks and, spitting in the Navy man's direction, moved off with his fellows. She sighed; they'd been lucky that time, with the assailants more interested in free booze than violence just yet.
With a look of disgust, the man picked himself up, gingerly perching himself back on his stool. His hat had fallen off when he'd been knocked out of his seat, and his wig was askew. He fixed both with an indignant ruffle before glancing at her.
"Thank you," he murmured stiffly, rubbing a large red splotch on the side of his jaw. He seemed to want to say something more, but instead looked down at his empty tankard.
"I told yeh it'd happen," she answered frankly. "And they won't be the last, either. I can't hold them off with free drinks forever, yeh know."
He gave her an irritated glance-seemed to be his thing, to never quite look at her, but instead only take fleeting glimpses, as though afraid of what he would see. "I'm afraid, madam, that I don't recall ever asking you to protect me at all."
"Yeh didn't," she said, "but I'm doin' it anyway." She poured him another drink, which he took slowly.
"Why is that?" he inquired sarcastically, clutching the tankard to his chest. She fixed him with a flat glare, hoping he'd sense it and look at her for once.
"I don't know," she informed him, quite truthfully. "But I'm doin' it, and yeh'd have an easier time of it if yeh'd just listen to me."
He sighed heavily. "I never said that I wanted an easier time of it," he muttered to himself, so she had to strain to hear him. It was her turn to sigh, exasperated.
"Are yeh doin' this to yourself on purpose?" she demanded. "Yeh 'ave a death wish?"
He finally looked her in the eyes, and the blank dejection in his sea-gray eyes snatched away her breath. The faintest twist of a smile could be seen on his thin lips as he merely replied, "Very nearly."
She stared at him a moment longer, then turned on her heel and left him nursing his rum.