Cutler is really an intriguing character, and I know that his hatred of pirates has been explained in the books. However, I never read those, and I only found out halfway through writing this. If it makes you unhappy, please forgive me; I meant no offense to anyone. Also, feel free to drop a review.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean.

Cutler Beckett pulled his stockings up to his breeches. From his seat on the vanity stool, he gazed around the room for his next article of clothing, but was unable to find the one he was searching for. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement and glanced up into the glass, smiling at what was behind him. "I'm going to need that."

"And if I say no?"

Beckett, spinning on the stool, stood. "Then I suppose I will be forced to leave shirtless," he said as he closed the space between them.

"Or you can stay," she offered. Beckett put his hands on her waist, and her arms looped around his neck. Their lips met fleetingly. "Please?"

"Cordelia, you've known for months now I have to leave." Beckett fingered her shirt—or rather his shirt—that draped over her tiny frame, all but swallowing her body. It had previously been his least favorite, with its dull white color and rough fabric. Now, however, seeing her in it, he thought that might change, and the frequency of its wearing might increase.

She frowned, a pout obscuring her pretty features. Her light green eyes roved over his bare chest before meeting his blue ones. "But I never said I wanted you to."

Beckett sighed, and Cordelia took his hands in her own small ones. They sat on the edge of her bed. "It's too late now. And I'll be back."

It was Cordelia's turn to sigh. She looked over her shoulder and out the window. The early morning sun penetrated her sheer blue curtains and streamed in across the shining floor, and from downstairs a clock chimed seven. With the growing morning, their wonderful, fleeting night was fading farther and farther into the past.

Beckett reached out a had to play with her long golden curls that now fell down her back. "Poppy, look at me."

When she faced him, there were tears brimming in her eyes. He felt a lump in his own throat, but swallowed it and wiped her cheek. Her lip began to tremble. "Cutler, I don't want you to go."

"Well, there's no need to cry about it, darling. I'll be back before you know it," Beckett tried to soothe. He smiled again, and he raised up her hand. "Just think about how pretty your hand will look with a ring on that finger."

He kissed her left hand, right where a ring would rest. A smile broke through the tears across Cordelia's lips. "You're really going to marry me?"

"When I have a ring. I would have married you long ago, if I had been able to find one good enough. And trust me, I've been looking everywhere it seems. I even went to London, mind you, and thought about going to Paris in search."

It made Cordelia's smile grow, and she laughed. "Cutler, I love you."

Beckett partially mirrored her reaction, opting instead to just lean forward and kiss her, long and slow, which soon found Beckett hovering over her. It later resulted in a tangle of limbs and sheets on the bed. When they broke, Cordelia rested her hand on his cheek, and Beckett pressed his lips to her palm. She let him hold her for few moments, and he was content to lay there with her, fingers running up and down her curved side from underneath his shirt. They made not a sound, yet it was powerful and overwhelming conversation. All too soon, Cordelia stood and disappeared into an adjoining room. Beckett followed her.

She was stopped at an open armoire where a few various robes hung. Cordelia pulled his shirt over her head and handed it to him, and Beckett, admiring her form, unfastened the button on his breeches, sliding them down a bit to tuck in the shirt, while Cordelia wrapped a pale pink robe around her; there was no embarrassment in their dressing state. Once he had put on his outerwear, they made their way, hand in hand, down her grand staircase. Beckett noticed a curious lack in servants.

"Promise you'll write," she asked. They turned and went down the hall, into the kitchen, where the back door was. Beckett looked her in the eye.

"Whenever I can," Beckett responded. "And you'll write back?"

"Immediately," Cordelia assured him.

"I've got my handkerchief." Beckett pulled out a creamy, soft square of wool cloth, embroidered in a light green with her initials. He briefly held it up to her eyes, liking how the stitching matched, and tucked it back into his pocket.

There was a smaller clock in the kitchen, which Beckett checked over her shoulder. They didn't have hardly any time left. Beckett put his arms around her waist, bringing her to him, and she rested her hands on his chest. Her face was turned up to him, and he brought his lips down to hers.

There had been many mornings like these. Mornings that came from sleepless nights where they'd exchanged sweet nothings and long kisses.

Nights like those had been what he most looked forward to, and their passionate nights had been when he felt most alive, no matter if it was just taking a midnight stroll through the gardens, or a more scandalous one that consisted of little clothing and would end with him catching his breath with his head on her exposed chest, listening to the pounding of her heart, which he was sure was nothing in comparison to his own. It would find him a few hours later petting her as they struggled to wake before true daybreak, where she'd insist he stay, and he'd insist he couldn't.

And while he relished those nights, there was something about mornings like these that was special. Nights felt volatile and scabrous, yet at the same time it was infinite and—to put it simply—right. They would find themselves in the morning wanting more, and unable to make the parting a quick process. There was a light naïveté about those mornings.

There had never been a morning like this, since all the other times he would be able to come back either later in the evening or in a few days, so that they would be able to have another marvelous morning. Beckett loved mornings like these, and knew he'd long for them while he was at sea.

"I love you, Cordelia," Beckett whispered, breaking away.

On the counter next to him was a vase filled with flowers he'd brought the night before, her favorite, bright red poppies, the reasoning for her pet name. He plucked one from its container and placed it carefully in her pretty hair. "Bye, Poppy."

With that, he kissed her once more, deep, but, compared to their past few, short, and twisted the knob on the door to let himself out.

"I love you!" She called after him.

Beckett turned around. "I love you too." He walked backwards for a few paces and then spun on his heel to face the opposite direction.

Beckett stared blankly at the letter in his hand. He sat back in his chair, and it fluttered out of his hand and onto the table. He had to remind himself to even breathe.

In his little room, there was a window next to him. He gazed out slowly, sight falling onto the harbor across the street. Shouts from the docks faded out to silence, and his chest felt heavy. Part of him wanted to read the letter again, just to check to see if it was true, while the other part wanted to burn the wretched, godforsaken thing in the fireplace. He mustered the courage to check anyways.

"The weather had been rotten for weeks, and, as you likely know, she had been almost completely bedridden since the ending of September thanks to an evening ride. It was decided she would go to spa in Aix-Les-Bains, and after recuperating would then take some time in Paris. Two days into the trip, and the ship was overrun by pirates. There were no survivors."

His eyes stung, and every movement felt like a trachle. Last week Beckett was supposed to leave for a visit home, one job done. If he'd only left, he could have caught her in time.

The contents of his pocket began to feel like bricks. He reached a hand in and pulled out the little box. Thumbing over the lid momentarily, he flipped it open. There the ring glittered, a nice sized diamond with two smaller ones on either side. It felt like a mockery, as if every sparkle was silently making fun of him.

He couldn't feel unhappy about her decision to go to the spa. True, she had probably only left by being bribed with the prospect of Paris, but he never would have wished her not to take the trip. She loved the city so, and he'd thought about buying a house for them there, once he had established himself.

It should have been a routine trip. There shouldn't have been any troubles, except for maybe bad weather, and her health. No pirates had been seen in the Channel in decades.

Beckett had been enjoying his job, save for a few mishaps. At the moment, however, he wanted nothing more than to be back in England, tucked away in the luxurious house that had been Cordelia's. The evening was growing, and he remembered their last one. The era of nights like those had drawn to and end.

Now all that was gone. He couldn't escort her to parties and show off his beautiful girl to jealous bystanders. There was no reason to stop by the florist. She would never fly down the stairs to meet him, a laughing, ecstatic smile on her lips. She would not pant his name between gasps of air, nor he hers. No more sipping champagne in the middle of the night, or having fingers flutter over his naked chest as they lay talking. He would never again kiss her awake after sleeping by her side. There would be no diplomatizing her into giving back his shirt, nor slipping out the back door, only to return a few days later.

Beckett brought out the other object in his pocket. The sea green of the embroidery made him think of her beautiful eyes, and he ran his thumb over the two Cs of her initials. Slowly, he brought it up to his nose, finding a heartbreaking comfort in the smell of her perfume.

"Blasted pirates," was all he managed to get out in his cracking voice.