Work Text:
Izzy Hands was dead and buried. His flesh gone, his bones nestled within the earth, his memory deeply rooted in the minds of those who knew him; some days it was almost as if he were still hanging around.
And for one place in particular a seaside inn on the island of the Republic of Pirates, that is especially true.
The place is small, only a handful of rooms newly renovated, complete with a freshly stained and installed bar made of driftwood. It stands proudly across the room from a check-in desk that is diligently manned by a salt and peppered haired man who eagerly awaits the tinkling ring of a bell signaling the presence of a new visitor. He is accompanied by his blond husband who is overly indulgent to both his lovely spouse and his guests. The place has been lovingly restored and decorated with colorful and cozy things that make a person feel right at home in their temporary lodging.
The thing about inns is that they are naturally liminal spaces. Inns are a just one stop on the journey of life as no one other than the owners of an establishment are meant to stay forever. This invites all manner of visitors, both of flesh and in spirit.
And with a grave in the front yard is it any wonder that one such spirit may wander in and make themselves at home?
Every once in awhile, the owners of the inn will get a frightened or bemused (depending on demeanor) retelling of how they saw a man with one leg and black leather standing by the bar. In his hand he holds a glass full of rum, always left for him at the end of the bar should he decide to make a visit. Guests will stare, dumbfounded, as he swirls the amber liquid and touching the glass to his lips while he broods in the corner. When asked who might the man be , the inn keepers share a wordless, fond look before simply stating that he was their friend.
They tell tales of a man who came from nothing, who worked harder than any other seadog worth their salt. They tell the guests he was a talented, intelligent, angry fucker with a bark far worse than his bite. He got a shit lot in life and did the best he could. He was not a man universally loved, he did not bring light and laughter to all who knew him. But he was a fighter, he was strong, he was one helluva pirate. The inn keepers will tell you that if you stare long enough, and if you’re real quiet, you might hear him softly say you absolute twat before dropping his glass and fading into the moonlit mist.
He was Izzy Hands and he is the only permanent guest at the inn because, as they say, he is an indestructible motherfucker.