His World's End

Usurped

Recently it seemed like Jack Sparrow hadn't had a moment to sit down and think about… well, just about anything really. For the most part, he was glad. Recently – since his return from Davy Jones' locker – his thoughts had been on one person, one action, one thing that he didn't really want to think about. It made him feel angry, mad, outraged and even a little maudlin and depressed which only added fuel to his anger.

He didn't want to think about her. But he did. Whenever he got a moment to himself his mind drifted and twisted and turned and he didn't know which way was up. His thoughts were by no means romantic. In fact, most of them consisted of varying ways of torture, leading to a slow and excruciatingly painful death. And then he'd feel guilty. Which only angered him more.

He shouldn't feel guilty about the thoughts he was having, he was a bloody pirate. Pirates don't feel guilt. Hell, he wouldn't feel guilty if it had been anyone else – even the whelp. But it wasn't anyone else. It was her. It had taken him a long time to realise why it had rattled him so much and it was only when he'd been in Beckett's cabin aboard the Endeavour that it finally hit him.

He'd trusted her.

For some reason, Jack Sparrow had let his walls down and let her seep into his life, into his small – almost miniscule – circle of trust. It was for reasons exactly like this that he trusted no one. Especially women. Which begged the question – why was she any different?

Was it because, perhaps, maybe that she'd been the only person to never really fall for his charms, to never really trust him? But she had trusted him, for a little while.

Or maybe it was the island, the first time they'd met up on some form of adventure or another in an attempt to get his beloved ship back – he stroked the deck under his fingers at the thought. Had that been when he'd first let his guard down to her? His talk of what the Black Pearl really was… letting her see his scars…

He groaned and stood up quickly, ignoring the startled glances from members of his crew.

He didn't know why he was thinking about her again. He had absolutely no reason to.

That's not true, Jacky boy, is it?

He tutted to himself and slammed the door to his quarters after he entered. He leaned his back against the door and slid down it, his idle hands reaching up to tug at his black, dreadlocked hair. He was, without doubt, going mad. He had to be.

Because there was really no other excuse as to why he was still thinking about her.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Cutler Beckett – the filthy, slimy, mangy, turtle-headed twit – had shown an interest in the treacherous, mutinous murderess. Why should that bother him? She would get what she deserved. And she was probably getting just that from Sao-Feng...

He started at his own thoughts. He'd never wish that upon anyone; not even her. Especially if it was her innocence at stake. He'd admit that, recently, he'd questioned that innocence and he'd wondered whether the whelp enjoyed being buried deep inside of her; wondered - fleetingly - what it would feel like for him to be that deep inside of her. But it was only because he'd been lonely and she'd been so close. He didn't want to acknowledge the tight feeling that enveloped his gut at the thought of the eunuch - he figured that if Will Turner had actually done what Jack was thinking he had done then Jack would need to find another nickname for him - doing those things to Elizabeth.

Especially after the mutinous act the traitorous, manipulating little cad had put on the previous day. He'd been glad to see the back of the boy. There had been a time when Jack had almost considered William Turner the second a good acquaintance, a friend perhaps seeing as he was the son of his once good friend Bill Turner. He wondered where it had all gone wrong. Granted, the boy had never really trusted Jack - not the way she did anyway - and Jack often wondered why. It had been not so long ago that William had helped Jack Sparrow escape the gallows in Port Royal; if it hadn't been for that act then Jack would most certainly not be alive. Jack had never really given the boy any reason to distrust him. On their quest to search for Elizabeth way back when, he'd held back information only because it would lead to William doing something stupid. And when Will had come to him in need of help of saving a certain distressing damsel once more, Jack had readily helped him out, once again telling him everything he needed to know and only keeping back what might have lead to the whelp doing something stupid. And in the end, had it not all worked out well? William had gotten to meet his father, still managed to save a certain distressing damsel - though she may have perhaps, in fact, saved herself - while still having the key and the chest which held the still beating heart of Davy Jones. But the whelp had somehow gotten hold of information that lead to him doing something stupid and causing them to lose the heart to the East India Trading Company.

So, the whelp had no reason to question Jack's honour. If there was any questioning of honour to be had it was Jack of Will.

Dammit, he'd wanted to run off with the Pearl Jack knew Will was no pirate - hell he wasn't even that good a sailor - so he wondered what must have been running through the little cads mind at the time. He knew what the Pearl meant to Jack.

The whelp should have known better.

Or did he really?

Will was not Elizabeth. Elizabeth was much too like Jack for Will to be anything like her. Elizabeth knew what the Pearl represented, what the Pearl gave to Jack and she would never take that away form him. Granted, she did tie him to a mast and leave him to his untimely and ultimately un-Jack-Sparrow-like death but at least she had the sense not to send him off in the long boat and take the ship. Jack was just not without the Pearl. Jack without the Pearl was like... like a beach, with no sea. A sky with no stars.

All Will saw was the fastest ship in the Caribbean. But didn't the idiotic little... didn't he realise that the only ship that could go to the places the Dutchman went was, in fact, the Dutchman herself? What had he expected to do? He had no map, no compass, no... nothing. All he had was a fast ship, chasing the waters of this Earth for a ship that floated in waters of a different Earth.

He felt no remorse in tossing the whelp overboard. Even if there was not much tossing involved.

And it was at that moment when he'd watched Master Turner swim to a floating barrel that he wondered when it had all gone wrong between the trio. The only explanation was that Will had somehow managed to see Elizabeth's kiss of death and mistake it for something else entirely. But if that had been true, then why was he still mad at Jack, even after it emerged that the kiss was entirely one-sided?

Which it was.

He smirked. Sure it was.

He sighed and stood up slowly from his spot behind the door and wandered over to his desk, fingers trailing over the maps that he'd poured months of his life into. He wondered if people knew of his affinity for drawing maps. It wasn't just a necessity for him, it was an interest.

He hissed at the word. Was it not Beckett's interest in dear Miss Elizabeth that had gotten him into such a foul mood in the first place? Jack had seen the look on Beckett's face when Jack had asked of Miss Swann's fate and felt the distinct urge to run through him with his cutlass. He couldn't explain the perverse pleasure he felt at the thought, nor did he want to.

She'll get what she deserves, she'll get what she deserves.

And yet no matter how much he chanted the words to himself could he bring himself to believe it.

She had just been doing what was right by her. He shouldn't have expected any less.

So why couldn't he bring himself to accept it? Bring himself to forgive her for something that he himself would have - maybe, perhaps - done himself?

He sighed and dropped into his chair, propping his feet on the desk, his fingers reaching for the lonely bottle of rum. He closed his eyes and she presented herself to him in the blank canvas of his eyelids.

Seems like Lord Beckett isn't the only one with an interestin Elizabeth...

He opened his eyes and glared at the bottle of rum. He uncorked it, sniffed and took a sip, ignoring his minds chants and taunts and tried to drown himself in his rum.

She's usurped you Jack… good and proper.

He didn't open his eyes as he tossed the bottle of rum away. Didn't flinch as he heard it smash somewhere on the other side of the room.

He wasn't entirely sure he was particularly fond of being usurped, or having his heart usurped. Especially not by the woman who had killed him.