"Well, well, well, if it isn't a face I never thought I would see again in me lifetime. Either of them lifetimes, even."
How does he do it? How does he manage to sneak up on people while wearing those big clunky boots? Thing is, he's a villain, so he has some privileges, and that seems to be one of them. The voice is grating, low and gravelly just like Bootstrap remembers. So is the crooked smirk and the bright, dark, yellow-rimmed eyes.
"Welcome to Milliways, Bootstrap. Fancy an apple?"
"We have both come a long way, Bootstrap, since we last laid eyes on each other. I already told your whelp, but I tell ye now, I'm glad you two ended up together."
"It took some help from Jack, and your son, and his wife." There isn't scorn in his voice, rather a slight shade of amusement. "That, and it didn't serve me all too well, since Jack killed right after it was lifted. And most of my men went straight to the gallows afterwards."
"We could argue there that sending one man to an eternity of undeath isn't quite as bad as sending a whole crew into it, and that I didn't send you to serve in Davy Jones's ship, but why prod old wounds?
The crooked smirk widens into a grin.
"And besides, as I said to Jack Sparrow first time I saw him after he shot me dead, a living man would be no end of stupid, to hold grudges against the dead."
It's not as though Barbossa doesn't know this; it's not as though he hasn't said it to him before -- a much younger man, then, grimly defiant over a strange blend of terror and resignation. He shouted the words back then, meaning them to carry to the rest of the crew.
He says them now quietly, without defiance or fear.
"That was most definitely not for you to decide. Our trade is far more honest than many others, and we did naught in looting that chest than any other pirate would have done. And yet you decided to condemn us all to an eternity of curse, Bootstrap."
His finger taps Bootstrap on the chest once, firmly.
"You chose to elevate yourself to the position of judge above all our souls, and for your pride were cast down into Hell. Be glad that it was me doing the casting down and not God, for at least by my acts, you got the chance to see your son once more."
How does he do it? How does he manage to sneak up on people while wearing those big clunky boots? Thing is, he's a villain, so he has some privileges, and that seems to be one of them. The voice is grating, low and gravelly just like Bootstrap remembers. So is the crooked smirk and the bright, dark, yellow-rimmed eyes.
"Welcome to Milliways, Bootstrap. Fancy an apple?"
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In puzzlement.
"...I know you," he says finally, slowly. Tentatively.
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Barbossa s smiling, such a friendly man, he is.
"Remember?"
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"Barbossa. Oh aye, I remember you."
He's not smiling. But there's no anger or hate in that steady gaze.
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He does not call Barbossa Captain. He never has.
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He leans in quite conspiratorially, a crooked smile on his lips.
"I'd say it's her, though. I wasn't specially fond of the place while I stayed here before. Too cut off from everything else."
And then a knowing nod as he leans back. This time, though he has a doorway back. Though he isn't telling any of his former associates, of course.
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Not that it matters. He'd not trust it anyway.
"I know the curse of the Aztec gold was lifted -- not that we any of us deserved it. How did you manage that?"
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A pause, and he regards Bootstrap levelly.
"We owe you that much."
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"I wasn't the author of your fate, Héctor Barbossa. No more than you were of mine."
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The crooked smirk widens into a grin.
"And besides, as I said to Jack Sparrow first time I saw him after he shot me dead, a living man would be no end of stupid, to hold grudges against the dead."
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Still no smile. Still no anger.
"We sent ourselves into it. You and I and the whole of our mutinous crew."
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He isn't angry yet, either. The curse is something that's in his past now, not enough to make him angry anymore. Or at least he thinks as much.
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It's not as though Barbossa doesn't know this; it's not as though he hasn't said it to him before -- a much younger man, then, grimly defiant over a strange blend of terror and resignation. He shouted the words back then, meaning them to carry to the rest of the crew.
He says them now quietly, without defiance or fear.
"We didn't deserve to be free of it."
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His finger taps Bootstrap on the chest once, firmly.
"You chose to elevate yourself to the position of judge above all our souls, and for your pride were cast down into Hell. Be glad that it was me doing the casting down and not God, for at least by my acts, you got the chance to see your son once more."
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Bootstrap gives a harsh laugh.
"And you speak of pride."
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