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It was the noise from down the tiny dirt path that had landed him in this mess, and there Hector Barbossa stands, holding the infant son of Elizabeth Turner as far from himself as humanly possible. In any other respect, it would be amusing, how she'd looked between himself and Jack, standing there in her entry room - two pirates with no business here, on the surface, looking painfully out of place - before she'd shoved the boy at Hector, deeming him the better of choices.

It would be funny. But now he's standing there holding the chubby little thing. He's heavier than Jack the monkey, and one tiny fist has migrated to his still as-of-yet toothless maw, and drool - disgusting, slimy drool - has run down his chin, now dripping onto Hector himself, where he's forced to hold the thing thing.