A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! This here is a loooong chapter! Enjoy!

Chapter 10 –Barbossa and the Barber

Warnings: blood… but no singin'

Having shared a wall with Elizabeth's cabin, Barbossa had heard murmurings coming from her room and had been curious enough to investigate. He had never expected to find Beckett and Elizabeth seated on Elizabeth's bed, before dawn, him essentially shirtless, her clad only in her nightgown, holding hands?

"Tha's quite enough," he said in a gravelly morning voice, though it came out sounding more sinister than anything else.

Elizabeth's face fell. This looked very bad. She immediately pulled her hands away, dropping them onto her lap, keeping her eyes downcast. Beckett dropped his hands at this time as well. To Elizabeth, this situation felt like an earlier situation with her father, back when she lived in Port Royal.

She and Will were practically inseparable before he was accepted as a blacksmith's apprentice. She remembered one of the last times they had played together, when they had both been fourteen and were putting on a play in the music room of her home. Elizabeth's fascination with pirates had had a major influence on the play's subject.

"Arrr, ye get back, ye mangy cur!" she had yelled at Will, holding a long iron candlestick as a type of makeshift sword. She had tied her hair back with a bandanna, wearing an old feathered hat of her late mother as a pirate hat. This had been one of the rare times she was able to get away from the frilly dresses and the air of proper society and be herself. Come to think of it, that hat looked an awful lot like Barbossa's does, she mused.

She backed Will into a corner, pointing the candlestick at his chest.

"Please, I hope that you would spare my life," a fourteen-year-old Will implored, falling to his knees.

"Yer gonna have to empty yer pockets of yer loot first," she said with a piratey growl, prodding him with the tapered though blunt end of the candlestick.

He sighed, thrusting both of his hands into the pockets of his breeches. He pulled a heavily scratched pocket watch, several marbles, and four shillings from his pockets.

Elizabeth removed her hat, holding it out upside-down for the kneeling boy.

"Put yer booty in me hat, or else it's the plank fer ye!" she said with an evil cackle.

He sighed, and placed the items in the hat. After all the items had been deposited in the hat, she very carefully tilted it and thrust it quickly upon her head, hearing the heavier items hit the top of her head as they fell out of the hat.

Will laughed.

She glared at him, a scowl on her face. Immediately the slight grin he had on his face disappeared.

"What's yer reason fer laughin' in my face?" she growled, looking as scary as she could.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I did not mean anything by it," he replied, a mock fearful expression on his face.

"Yer gonna have to do more than that to be forgiven," she said, prodding him with the sword.

"What must I do?" was his innocent reply.

"Stand up first," she commanded. He immediately stood up. She looked at him, this boy with light brown eyes and an everlastingly serious expression on his face. She had to break him, had to make him smile, if only temporarily. How she loved to see that brief hint of a smile from him!

"Lift up yer arms," she said. He did so.

Suddenly she had dropped the candlestick, ignoring the subsequent metallic clattering, as she tackled him to the floor, tickling him senseless. He was howling with laughter as she sat on his chest, digging her fingers under his arms as he tried in vain to hold them tightly at his sides, a big broad smile across his usually serious face.

Soon she was lying chest to chest with Will, her hands running crazily up and down his sides as he tried to either dodge their tickling power, or use his own hands to tickle her right back. Both of them were laughing, lying on the floor, when they heard the door open with a bang.

"Elizabeth," Weatherby Swann said, presumably standing by the door. "What in God's name are you two doing?" He sounded concerned, but not angry, per se. Then again, Elizabeth had never seen her father overcome with anger before. This may have been the closest he had come.

She craned her neck around from her position atop Will to look back at her father, his expression dead serious. He wasn't frowning, really, but he definitely wasn't happy.

"Remove yourself from Mr. Turner, Elizabeth. Such behavior is not becoming of a lady."

Sighing, she crawled back off of him, leaving him to sit up, looking as if he had taken in all the guilt. She stood up, facing Will, watching the expression on his face, which was not readable at the moment.

"Now apologize to Mr. Turner. That was very inappropriate of you, and you can't go about doing such things again."

"I'm sorry, Will," she said in the most contrite mumble she could muster, giving Will a little wink afterwards. Her father could not see her face and thus did not pick up on this playfulness. Will flashed her a brief smile, which faded immediately upon her turning to face her father. Weatherby Swann held out a hand to his daughter.

"Come, child. The dressmaker is due any moment for your fitting for Lt. Commander Norrington's promotion to Commander. You remember him, don't you?" She took his hand hesitantly, nodding solemnly as she looked back at Will, still sitting on the floor, looking hurt.

"You can't go about doing such things, Elizabeth.…"

That had been the last time she had been unabashedly playful with Will. After the incident, Will had been accepted into an apprenticeship with the local blacksmith and was now learning a trade, entering manhood. She had to return his loot to him in passing, because they never had another time to reverse roles in another play. Later on in her life, she sensed that her father had lined him up in the apprenticeship so that he and Elizabeth could remain apart. This was probably true.

And now she felt as if the situation was happening all over again, but this time with… Cutler Beckett, of all people. And Barbossa was now acting like her father, though much more intimidating.

Beckett's physical response to this unexpected intrusion was the same as Elizabeth's, though he also let out a breath he had been holding. There'd be no way he'd ever make it to the Azores now. He'd be left floating face-down in the ocean, being pecked by seagulls. He felt like a child being reprimanded. And soon to be killed, as well.

"Get yer shirt back on," Barbossa said irritably to Beckett, who immediately slipped his arms back through the sleeves of his shirt, unable to look at the captain while he did so.

Elizabeth slid off the side of the bed opposite Beckett, standing beside with as much air of propriety as she could manage, ignoring Beckett for the time being. She faced Barbossa, running a hand through her hair and looking down to ensure that her nightgown was covering her well.

"I should throw ye both off th' ship fer this," the tall captain said, obviously disappointed and alarmed at this situation. Any minute now, the Kraken would probably bubble below the ship….

"Beckett has sutures that need to be removed from his back. I was examining them."

"Right, Missy," Barbossa said in a sarcastic voice. "Never in me life did I know tha' hands could reveal the secrets o' the remainin' bodily flesh. Unless ye've some sort o' trainin' in all that gypsy nonsense."

"I was trying to make him turn arou—"

"Do ye take me fer a fool, Mrs. Turner?" Barbossa replied, suddenly unsheathing a sharp dagger. She gaped up at him, her eyes wide with fear. Was he going to kill her for this?

"I can help ye with that," he said to Beckett, holding the dagger threateningly, as he took a step towards the bed. "Shoulda asked me instead. I'll make quick work o' that fer ye."

Beckett was now standing beside the bed, his hands held up as a form of surrender.

"That's not needed, I assure you. I'm going to have it taken care of when we arrive in Azores."

"Well, ye had Mrs. Turner look at it fer ye. I can take care of whate'er pain it's causin' ye in no time," Barbossa said, taking another step forward.

"I insisted upon seeing it, even though he did not want to show me, Captain Barbossa," Elizabeth said, moving around the side of the bed. "It's my fault."

"I heard yer gonna be flogged later on today by Elizabeth herself," the captain said to Beckett, whose cheeks flushed pink.

"Yes, that is true," Elizabeth said, stepping forward. "I was concerned about the condition of the wound before the flogging is to take place. I wanted to be sure that what happened before isn't going to happen again."

"Right. Looked exactly like what ye be doin' when I arrived," Barbossa said, remembering Beckett lying in the brig on his back, staring up silently at the sky. However, he was not convinced in any sense of the word. "Ye better watch what yer doin', Mrs. Turner, or yer gonna bring on the wrath o' the Dutchman."

Her face blanched.

Beckett looked confused.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked Barbossa, suspicion in his eyes.

"Well, ye see, Beckett, Mr. Turner is now captainin' a ship, an' not jus' any ship; he's the new cap'n o' the Flying Dutchman."

Elizabeth's jaw dropped. Why was he telling Beckett all of this?

"Does that mean he's—" Beckett began.

"Before he was to be leavin' this world, he was commissioned as the new cap'n o' the Dutchman."

"Ah." Understanding came over Beckett, and he glanced surreptitiously at Elizabeth, whose mouth was hanging slightly open in shock. So… Turner won't back for ten years, he mused. Interesting situation.

"Sparrow's not gonna be happy about this," Barbossa mumbled, sliding the dagger back into its sheath.

"There's nothing for you to say," Elizabeth stammered in reply. "All that I have said is all that occurred."

"D'ye take me fer a bloody fool, now?" he said, in a sort of humorous disbelief, that she could honestly try to convince him of the innocence of what was going on in her cabin. He held his dagger threateningly, flashing the sort of knowing grin as if having some sort of sinister underlying plan.

Beckett gulped rather loudly, though his expression remained stoic. This sound of fear was not lost on Barbossa and Elizabeth, who both looked over at him.

"Begone with ye, Beckett, before I ensure ye've naught another pain e'er again," Barbossa suddenly commanded, lifting an arm as if to strike Beckett where he stood.

Beckett hastily slipped around Barbossa and slunk out of Elizabeth's cabin, en route back to his hammock in the brig.

Barbossa moved quickly to the door, shutting it and locking it behind Beckett. He strode back over to where he had been standing. He and Elizabeth were now alone in her cabin.

"Heard ye tole Jack that ye'd be punishin' Beckett instead o' lettin' 'im throw Beckett overboard," Barbossa said to her, standing facing her as she stood beside the bed, him on the other side.

"Yes," she replied slowly, caution in her voice.

"An' why would ye do somethin' like that, pray tell?"

She had her reasons. And she wasn't about to tell Barbossa them. However, she felt somewhat violated by having an important detail of her life being revealed without her consent.

"Why did you tell Beckett about Will?"

"I thought it an appropriate punishment fer ye fer lettin' yer guard down so far with 'im."

Punishment? Who does he think he is, anyway?

"He was letting his guard down with me even more so. Sitting in front of me in such a vulnerable state. He had no idea if I'd had a pistol or dagger stowed somewhere—"

"Good ye are at gettin' 'em in the position o' mos' vulnerability," Barbossa began, "but then, yer puttin' yer own life an' livelihood at risk, e'en if only indirectly at best."

"I can honestly say I feel no fear for the Dutchman's return. I was simply tending to wounds… that he acquired almost immediately after saving my life."

"Well, as long as yer conscience is clear," Barbossa replied, exasperated. "But Beckett has hinted to me tha' somethin' may be goin' on betwixt you two. An' yer steppin' up to prevent his premature departure from th' ship supports that notion."

She looked affronted, and put her hands on her hips.

"What?" she said. "The nerve! And when did he say this?"

"Yesterday morn, after ye followed Jack into his cabin."

"Oh, really," she said again, ire in her voice. "If he's going to go about spreading vicious rumours, then I'll see to it that they are quelled."

"So it's not true," he said, watching her carefully.

"Of course not!" she replied, looking irritated. "The nerve of that man! He murdered my father."

The words came out sounding harsh and vengeful, but the way she felt sharply contrasted this. She had forgiven Beckett for the part he had played in Weatherby Swann's death. He was penitent; that was for sure. And he had saved her life, so he had repented for his earlier misdoing.

"Well, now ye have the perfect opportunity to put 'im in 'is place later, when yer administerin' another floggin'."

"I most certainly will do so at that time," she said resolutely.

"An' Jack'll probably want to watch this all happenin', bein' as he'll be shocked to know of the activities that went on behind closed doors."

Ugh. She really didn't want Jack to attend the flogging. It would just feel really odd and he'd probably speak up every couple of seconds to tell her to hit Beckett harder, or something along those lines. Or maybe he'd cringe every time a lash hit, and she'd feel guilty for laying it on too hard. Most likely he'd do the latter.

"Captain Barbossa," she stated very clearly, "there is no particular purpose to your telling him about this."

"Ah, isn't there now?" he said, pulling the dagger back out of the sheath. "Well, I've my purposes fer tellin' 'im. Then again, I can also think of a way ye can convince me not to say anythin' to 'im."

She gulped, feeling the contents of her stomach dropping somewhere down into her legs. What was he going to want her to do? There was no way she was going to do anything that would make it seem as if she was cheating on Will. Besides, if he asked her to do something like that, he'd be a hypocrite.

He held his dagger out to her. She stared at it, confusion written all over her face.

"Take it," he said, flipping it so that she could grab it safely. She took it from him from her position across the bed, staring at him all the while with wide eyes. He walked around the foot of the bed and stood very close to her, then suddenly sat down on the bed, facing her.

Oh, God, she mused, watching him smile at her, his hedgehog-bristled face looking older than ever.

"I want ye to give me a shave," he said, looking up at her as he removed his feathered hat slowly and laying it beside him on the rumpled blankets.

"—But I don't know how to—"

"'s easy. Ye run it up against the skin without makin' it go into the skin. Simple enough concept, eh?"

"But why can't you—"

"I tend to do a rather lousy job on me own face. Can't see me reflection to get it jus' right. An' I don' want to be tormented fer days on end by Jack, e'en though his stubble don' look much better. Tha' man can hardly grow hair."

"So if I do this, you're not going to inform Ja—"

"Correct. Tha's the deal; take it or leave it." He beamed up at her, the scraggles of his graying beard and mustache sticking out every which way.

"Alright," she said, pulling up the bedside table and sitting on it. She held the dagger in her right hand, looking at him questionably.

"D'ye have no idea?" he finally said, after she sat there motionlessly for a minute or so. She nodded.

"Yer to wet my face down firs'," he said, "to soften the skin." He snatched the dagger from her hand, holding it so that the blade lay against his skin, though at a shallow angle from lying flat against the surface of the skin.

"Then ye take the dagger an' do this." He scraped the blade along his cheek, causing a scratchy sound much like that of sandpaper to come from the motion. A decent amount of shaved hairs now stuck to the edge of the dagger's blade. Quickly he rubbed the blade against his shirt, removing the hairs. He then handed the dagger back to her.

"See? Tha's all ye need do," he said, giving her a grin of confidence.

"Well, I need to go get some water first," she said. He picked one of the cloths that had been on Beckett's wound up off the bed and handed it to her.

"Soak this with water an' that should be good enough. If ye don' return I'll know what I mus' do."

"Don't worry," she said, aware of the threat as she walked past him. "I'll be right back."

She left her cabin, shutting the door behind her, and headed down to the hold. There was fresh water in the barrels that she would acquire the needed water from. She loosened the lid of the barrel and poured water over the fabric, soaking it to a transparent state. Aside from his obvious loathing of Jack, Barbossa really was rather even-tempered.

Upon reaching the gun deck, she hastily opened her cabin door, slipped inside, and shut the door behind her. Barbossa was right where he had been before, grinning at the wet cloth in her hands.

She moved towards where he was seated and sat herself down on the table, handing him the cloth.

"You're probably best at wetting your own face," she told him with as shy an air as possible. He took the cloth and began blotting his face with it. Afterwards, he dropped it to the floor below.

She leaned towards Barbossa as slowly as possible, allowing the edge of her hand to lie against his skin before placing the blade there. She noticed a scar from a dagger-like slice under his right eye and cringed a bit, hoping that all would go smoothly.

Holding her breath, Elizabeth made a flicking motion with the blade against his skin, praying that she'd see bits of hair along the edge of the blade—and nothing else.

She looked at the blade. Nothing.

Barbossa made eye contact with her, and it was truly unnerving, because his face was ever so close to her own. His eyes were deep blue but also quite bloodshot, spoiling the whole effect of what dazzlingly coloured eyes could have. The brilliant colour of his eyes was also apparent to her after Sao Feng had assumed that she was the goddess Calypso in human form.

"Ye've got to get a little closer than that," he said, his breaths felt on her face. This was ever so strange. Having gotten way too up close and personal to Jack, Beckett, and now Barbossa… all while her husband was away.

She leaned forward slightly more, not understanding exactly what he had meant. Again she placed first the side of her hand on his cheek, then the blade. She scraped down his cheek with the blade, hearing a sandpapery sound in response. He was staring at her, and it was unnerving her to no end.

"Can you close your eyes?" she asked him very politely, glancing at the blade for traces of hair.

"Ha ha," he said, nearly laughing. "Maybe Jack an' Beckett can trust ye with a blade while blindfolded, but I'm not yet at that point."

"Oh. Well, I daresay you've a good deal of trust in me to do this," she said, watching his resulting chuckle. "Well, look off in another direction or something. Please."

He was amused at how affected Elizabeth was by closeness, no matter who it was with. She was obviously very inexperienced with these sorts of things. Truth to tell though, so was he, even though he was no longer young and that was now unacceptable to admit. This situation was safe for him, having an even more frightened partner to share the moment with. When he had to yell out the chant for Tia Dalma—err, Calypso –with the voice of a lover, he'd had no idea. Oh, he'd had plenty of women in his time, had done anything in the book that could have been described with a name, but he'd never had to interact with women on a daily basis. Lovers and romance and all that. Wasn't the life of a pirate, to do such things. His time spent with women consisted of only a night or two spent ashore when the Pearl'd make berth. It was nice getting such a young, pretty woman to be so close in proximity to him. And these were much more pleasant circumstances than after she had claimed parlay against him and his cursed crew, and when they dined together in the captain's cabin afterwards.

He acquiesced to Elizabeth's demand, his blue eyes gazing off towards the back wall in the far left-hand corner of the room. She ran the blade along his cheek, unsure of the exact angle to hold the blade.

She had gotten hair off with the blade! Oh… but there was also a trickle of blood, ever so thin, from the sharp point of his cheekbone.

"Ohh," she said, disappointed.

"What be the problem?" he replied, looking back at her, his eyes wider than normal.

"There's a little trickle—I must have accidentally—"

"Believe me, I'll be directly aware if ye do somethin' truly bad," he said.

Greatly relieved, she continued with the shaving.

Being as this sort of activity was very new to her, it took her almost a half hour to finish up. He had insisted that all the stubble on his cheeks, jowls, neck, and most of the hair on his chin would be rendered clean-shaven. She'd left the mustache and a skinny goatee as the only remaining facial hair.

He picked the now-drying cloth up off the ground, and used it to wipe the stray hairs off his face. He really did look twenty years younger, after the removal of all those gray spiky hedgehog hairs. She was proud of the job she had done.

Barbossa ran the back of his fingers against his now smooth face, looking at Elizabeth from her position on the table.

"Ah, yer a natural," he said, smiling. The tall older captain really could be quite charming when he wanted to be.

"I'm glad you approve," she replied, genuinely happy that he was satisfied.

"So it looks alright to ye?"

"Yes, I daresay it does."

"I'll keep yer word in mind, if'n I be hearin' any dissention 'bout it," he said, standing up and brushing off his clothes. He put his hat back on his bandanna-clad head and stately tipped his hat to her as he strode out of her cabin, shutting the door behind him.

She was left in a daze. Had Beckett really been spreading rumours about the ship that they were involved? Oh, she'd show him…

Preview for chapter 11:

"You're late," a voice said. There was Beckett, sitting on a barrel near the ruined grating of the brig's only cell, a smirk on his face.