Hangovers are not nice things to wake up to. Waking up after having been dead for a year is even worse. Imagine that lump of nauseous pain in the stomach, bubbling its way through your digestive system, times it by fifty and then spread it all over the body.
"Aah. Back in de land of de living."
The speaker, by their voice alone, could easily be mistaken for an opium addict, but this was just part of Latonya Vaughn's languid, lazy and terminally laid back personality. She boasted Jamaican descent, though her profile was more chiselled than the average African, and claimed this helped her never, ever worry about anything. Very likely, her unladylike height and her strong, handsome, tough frame added to her supreme detachment. Rounded off with her total inability to hold grudges or even dislike people, and you got a personality so relaxed it was amazing Latonya even bothered to wake up.
She was slumped on the ragged remains of a daybed, watching with interest Tia Dalma's unfortunate's attempts to focus.
When he did, he started to wail softly. "Oh nooo," he moaned. "Oh noooo."
Latonya flopped off the daybed and crawled sleepily over to him. She gave him a few prods in the stomach and he doubled up. "Noooooo."
"Yesss," she countered. "Lotsa yesssss."
"I'm on Tortuga, aren't I?" muttered the unfortunate.
"Can smell it, right?" Latonya chuckled. "You've been unconscious between Giselle and Scarlett for t'ree days. Them dropped you off dis morning."
"Giselle and Scarlett?" he echoed. "The hell yer say. Hang on… let me check for bruises…"
"No, they treat you good. Tia Dalma, she say so."
He lay quite still. "The voodoo woman?"
"Yea."
"I'm not dead." He sat bolt upright. "Bigod." He tore open his shirt and looked down onto a mottled, muscular chest, scattered with wiry grey hairs. There was a black circle on his chest, puckered and still tender. "Hah," he said softly. "That's one in the eye for Jack Sparrow."
He turned to Latonya, who was watching him through heavily lidded eyes. "And how d'yer come to be caught up in this… Miss Vaughn?"
Latonya clapped her hands. "Aii! Him remember me!"
He raised his eyebrows wearily. "Ye be quite popular with my crew," he muttered, "if memory serves correctly." He stared her over. "Have yer aged, Miss Vaughn? I'll swear to the Devil it's been over ten years since any of my men enjoyed yer company, yet yer look as fresh as ever…"
She gave him a cheerful grin and ignored him. "You want some breakfast, Captain Barbossa?"
He luxuriated in the title. "Oh aye. Have ye any apples?"
Whilst Latonya bustled into the noisome little room that served her as a kitchen, Barbossa (for it was he) took stock of his surroundings. Latonya's hut was perched on the edge of the town, messily decorated with booty, and unbelievably dirty. A tasteless coffee table, tacky to touch and piled high with books, stood next to her enormous and infested bed, which Barbossa was lying on. He idly picked up a book and glanced over it, but it was in a strange language, so he put it down again. His hat was lying on the floor. It did not look well, but there was nowhere cleaner to put it.
He was faintly aware of being dead, as one is aware of a figure standing behind one's back without needing to look, but if he concentrated on the memory for more than a few seconds it slipped away from his thoughts, like a tendril of fog vainly pursued with a butterfly net. The memory that was taking up the most room was, surprisingly, nothing that happened on the Isla de Muerta. It was the moment just before he'd marooned Jack for the second time- when he'd put his arm around Jack's shoulders, saying, "That's the island we made yer governor of on our last visit!", he'd noticed the musky, grubby, honey-like scent of Jack's skin. This smell was replaying over and over in his memory, not helping Barbossa's indigestion at all.
Latonya returned and dumped a tray of food on Barbossa's lap, making him wince.
"You want anything else?" she purred.
He gave her a withering look, with extra wither. "No. Yer know that."
She grinned at him, heaved herself onto the bed, and fell asleep beside him, in the same smooth movement. With any other woman Barbossa would have gotten immensely nervous and instinctively tightened his belt, but Latonya would go to sleep anywhere.
He prodded his food instead. Latonya had kindly provided an apple, as well as some miscellaneous seafood soup. Seafood was Latonya's speciality, and Barbossa had learnt that meals that look as though they had been regurgitated tended to be the better at keeping out the cold. He ate it with gusto.
When he had finished, he swung himself off the bed- Latonya didn't move- and padded outside. Even at the edge of the town the heat of the fires, teamed with the heady climate of the area, made the air hellishly hot. Barbossa loved it- it had been far too long since he'd sweated a good, honest sweat. He wondered who he knew in town who would buy him a drink.