Satisfied

He stalks her with his eyes. At any given moment, she can look up to find him watching her with a cold light in his eyes, no smile or jest for her. His eyes bore into her with purpose, though it is unclear whether the purpose is to kill her or kiss her. She finds that she simply cannot tell. All she knows is that she feels hunted, trapped, and strangely hungry. She tries to meet his eyes, to challenge him back, but she always ends up looking away.

There was no time, when they found him, for her to blurt out a hurried apology or explanation, no privacy in which to do so. He had simply given her a brittle smile, flapping his hand in a dismissive gesture before they were all off and back to the ship and sea. He had genuinely smiled for the briefest of moments when he boarded the 'Pearl, caressing her dark wood and closing his eyes before barking orders at the crew, Elizabeth included. In the chaos that came afterwards with escape from Jones' hell, Jack treated as an equal by virtue of the fact that she held her own in sharing the workload, only speaking at her to give out necessary directions and trusting her to carry them through. But now, out at sea and trying to put as many miles between them and the 'Locker as possible... Jack stalks her.

Everyone is on the alert, worriedly scanning both horizon and the waves below. No one knows whether the Kraken will be called or where Jones is, exactly who has the heart or who is controlling whom. They only know they are a world away from the closest place that any of them can remotely call "home," from those ports of Tortuga, Jamaica, Martinique... and that there are vast leagues to cross before they reach the Caribbean and before they might receive answers to a million pressing questions. It creates a charged atmosphere aboard the ship, one where even old mates snap at each other like dogs and then falter in apology before falling back into anxious work. It is an atmosphere where Will and Jack avoid each other, Jack and Barbossa avoid each other, Tia Dalma and Will curiously avoid each other, and Elizabeth simply avoids everyone. There have already been terse arguments between Barbossa and Jack; Elizabeth wonders why there has been no fight, but something seems to be holding Barbossa in check and Tia Dalma seeming to be the only one who knows why. There have been no more fights between Elizabeth and Will, if only because she won't come near him to let it happen and doesn't care enough to enter the fray. There have been nothing but steely glances between Will and Jack, no words since they left the 'Locker. They have all continued in this way for days, stretching into weeks.

Five days after their almost holiday-like stop at Mauritius, in which everyone breathes a sigh of relief for the beautiful surroundings and the chance to put more than a deck's length between each other, a nasty storm hits off the coast of South Africa. Everyone falls into the welcome routine of getting the 'Pearl through it, everyone except Elizabeth. When she trembles so badly that her hands let a line fly loose, Pintel nearly strikes her for her stupidity as he wipes the blood away from the rope-lash. Jack orders her below, realizing her fear of storms and wisely deducing that she will do more damage than good. When she refuses from a sense of bravado, she finds herself bodily picked up, kicking and screaming before being literally thrown into Jack's cabin and locked in. Later, she is glad of it as she huddles in his blankets, trying not to vomit from sheer terror as the 'Pearl lists and rolls and the thunder rages above them and she rides out her first real storm. She spends part of her time hating herself for being afraid, part of the time being fiercely angry at herself for being useless, and the other part of the time praying and hoping no one is lost overboard. She only realizes they are out of the storm when all her muscles loosen in relief and she falls into exhausted slumber.

Sometime in the night she hears the click of the lock and tries to drag herself up out of sleep, but her limbs and head both feel too heavy to move. In the dark absence of lantern-light, she hears boot-heels coming across the cabin to where she lies huddled on the bed. She smells him even before she hears his voice rumble her name, knows the scent of his skin and the salt that clings to him. She can hear him shedding his coat, dropping his boots on the floor, hears the slight change in his breathing when he sinks down beside her. He says her name again, softly, and she turns to him without thought, feeling the scarred skin beneath her fingertips and his mouth finding hers easily, even in the dark.

He doesn't kiss her at first, simply breathes his breath gently into her mouth as if returning her to life like he did the first day they met, sweet liquour and pipe smoke. And then she jumps at the gentle flick of his tongue against her lips and moans softly, her insides coiling up and tightening at the feel of his hands sliding up her arms. He takes her head between his hands and kisses her so fiercely that she thinks she may faint. He reels back a moment to say her name again, and this time it is a question. She answers it by threading her fingers into the back of his tangled mane and dragging his mouth back down to hers, dragging her hands downward through the mass of hair, across the linen-drape of his back and tearing upwards at the cloth to reach the skin underneath. She hadn't realized she knew how to do this, nor how badly she had wanted this. Until now.

In a instant he has torn off his shirt, ripped open hers and is running his fingertips down her bare skin, a small sound of wonderment in his throat. He is almost hesitant in the exploration of her, of the smoothness of her skin and the raised flesh of tightened nipples that make her gasp as he touches them lightly. Again, he rumbles a question into the darkness, and again she answers by placing his hand further down on her belly, gasping again as he begins to stroke her skin in ever-widening downward sweeps. His kisses are slower now, hotter, teasing her until she is writhing more from his mouth than from the hand charting a course down her body. She knows what he wants: he wants her to beg, to know that she truly desires this, desires him. She realizes that she no longer cares about pride, not when he is kissing her this way, not when his fingers have reached the place that only she has ever touched. When he slides into wetness, she weeps from the fire of it and from the release of tension that she hadn't truly known was there. She gasps his name brokenly and he murmurs soothing words in her ears, her name and every pet name he has ever used on her. He softly laughs in triumph when she reaches up to clutch at his back, his arms, to pull him closer. She understands that his laughter isn't cruel or mocking, it is simply a genuine laugh of relief and gladness.

When he stops to divest her of the rest of her clothing, she moans in protest and again hears his voice soothing her, but now there is an edge to it, a growl. He is reaching the point where he can no longer hold back, and she is glad of it, glad it is for her. Time loses all meaning as he gently guides her back to where he had her, slowly exploring her skin, slowly letting her explore his, even though he is trembling with the effort of being patient. She is not so far gone as to have lost all apprehension, and she is a little frightened. This act is irrevocable, after all, both the physicality of it and the consequences that will follow not only for them, but for others around them. But in the end, she can no longer wait herself, and when he takes her there is pain and there is fear, but after a time, both fade away into joy she never dreamed possible. The hours tick on until they are both thoroughly satisified in their curiosity and their explorations. When it is all over, he takes her in his arms and says nothing, but she knows he can feel her smiling against his chest and she senses his own smile against her hair. She carefully settles with him into the bedclothes, marvelling at the new sensation of his body relaxed against hers and at how very appropriate it seems to be laying there with him, drifting into sleep as his hand slowly caresses her. She knows that she regrets nothing and will take on tomorrow without shame or apology, regardless of what is said or done by anyone else. He rumbles an endearment to her in the darkness, pulling her more tightly into his arms as he falls asleep, and she cannot be sorry, never will be again.

Morning will bring new emotions, perhaps, and new problems. But for now, they are satisfied.