A/N: Immediately post-AWE.

-oOo-

It has been fourteen years since I last saw Captain Barbossa, and I wonder if the sad, hard fate of antiquity's Hector has claimed his modern-day namesake. Which Achilles finally did him in? Did he die by the sword, ship's guns, the noose, or another man's pistol? Did his own ship take him down to an uncertain rest at the bottom of the sea? I am sure there was no Apollo to preserve the captain from defilement and corruption, and I cannot bear the thought of that thick russet hair turning to lank seaweed, or the beautiful blue of his eyes dispersing into the greater, more relentless blue of the ocean, leaving only the empty sockets to be homes for eels.

Or has he simply forgotten this place and the calm in which he used to take such pleasure? Has he forgotten me?

I tell no one of my aching grief and the emptiness inside; barely dare voice it aloud lest its weight will crush me. And there is naught else I can do save to submerge my loneliness in work.

Seven years ago, when I was 25, Nan died and Grantham House became mine to run, but there's been little joy in it for me. Several of my favorite guests have either died or retired, and the few new ones who come to take their place are often a less-than-pleasant lot. They adhere to my rules, more or less, but they also steal linens and plate, forcing me to replace them and using up my earnings even before they're in my purse. If Captain Barbossa returns and discovers what has become of his quiet retreat, he will set things right, I am sure of it.

I might as well wish to be Queen of the Moon.

-oOo-

It's been a long, exasperating day; I'm tired, and all I want to do is sit in my room soaking my feet in a pan of warm water before dropping face-first onto my bed. It's little enough to ask, but no sooner do I begin to relax than I hear the tinkle of the bell I keep near the guest register, signaling that I am wanted to receive a late arrival.

Oh, for God's sake!

It's rare that I have a lodger arrive so close to midnight and, entering the front room, I'm forced to greet this one in my shawl and dressing gown. But any irritation I feel leaves me instantly when I see who it is.

"Never mind, Cora," I tell my sleepy maidservant, barely able to contain myself. "You go back to bed; I'll have this gentleman sign the ledger and see to whatever he needs myself."

The captain is silent as he dips the quill and signs his name — still just Capt. H. Barbossa, without reference to his ship — then follows me up familiar stairs, down a familiar hallway, and into a familiar room that I'm glad I can provide. "I apologize for the furnishings not being as fine as you might remember," I quaver, and I am unable to meet that blue gaze. "Nan died a few years back and I'm afraid I don't have her knack for making enough money to keep Grantham House as I'd like it."

He only chuckles and slips his fingertips under my chin in echo of an earlier time, forcing me to look up. "'Tis not the furnishin's I come for, missy, but the peace," he tells me, "of which I've had fair little these many years. Though I'll admit, I've found great merriment an' joy here, too, not least in a little servin' maid a-doin' her best t' bury me pride under a pile o' roasted chickens."

God Almighty, he hasn't forgotten. Part of me is pleased, part utterly mortified, and all I can do is blush and mutter, "I'm so sorry, I never meant to..."

But, "Hush, lass," Barbossa interrupts, putting one finger lightly over my lips to silence me. "Ne'er be sorry that you gave me such a fine moment t' remember, for 'tis such memories as gets a man through th' darkest hours of his life."

"What, remembering that I nearly gave your fine clothes a soaking in grease?" It comes out in a squawk and my blush deepens.

The captain laughs, then; the same lovely sound I remember from the time in question. "No matter that yer Nan kept you clothed in a sackish thing too poor even for a workhouse," he says thoughtfully, his voice low, and I know he's looking me over the same way he did the last time we stood on this very spot. "You were a pretty child then, for all yer frock were an ill-fittin' one, an' you grew to a lovely girl." He bites his lip. "But by Christ, 'tis an even more handsome woman y' are now, an' no mistake."

I'm... surprised? Elated? Appalled? Doesn't he see the old maid I've become?

"There's been many things as have gripped my mind durin' all th' past years since I've seen you," Barbossa goes on, "but I'll have ye know: through all of it, I remembered this place, and I remembered you, and I longed for ye both."

I can only nod mutely to show that I remembered and longed for him, too.

"I'm glad, lass." His weatherworn face beams approval and I see hope in his tired blue eyes. "Now, I know 'tis late and you might still have business to attend to — ye're rather like a cap'n in this house, see? — but still..." He takes a step closer. "Must you rush off just yet? Might you not stay awhile?"

This time, I do not drop my eyes from his even though it means he will see their shine of tears at this second chance to answer his question; a question that has burned deep inside my heart and my belly every day of these fourteen long years.

"Might you not stay?"

It is a whisper the likes of which I never dreamed to hear from this man. It is a whisper I never wanted to hear from any other.

No matter that I do not know how long this can last; the ruination I've wanted so long at Captain Barbossa's — Hector's — hands is finally within my reach and it makes me brave enough to put my own hands against his face, the soft curls on his cheeks and chin running through my fingers.

He inches forward, leans down to let me feel the brush of a bearded jaw against my temple, the wisp of an auburn moustache at the corner of my mouth. "Will you stay?"

I have long wondered what the words would taste like straight from his lips, and now I know: there is salt and wine and something tartly sweet that I would know if I were calmer. "Per... perhaps," is all I can squeak out, and I feel like a small child, an idiot, a stammering fool.

No. I feel like a woman who wants this man so badly that I will begin whimpering at any moment.

But what Captain Barbossa thought was a good enough answer before will not do for him now. "Will you stay?" It is soft, insistent. It is he who is whimpering. "Will you? Ye'll not regret it."

I cannot speak. I can barely breathe.

But I can close the door behind us.

FIN