"I know what I want, I know what I want, I know what I want…"
Hand firmly clenching the compass, eyes screwed shut in concentration, Jack continued his litany mentally and paused a moment in apprehension before risking a glance at what had once been a faithful companion but had recently become a bitter opponent.
The arrow, disappointingly but predictably, swung drunkenly in one direction, then another, and then yet a third.
It was a problem that had been occurring at increasingly frequent intervals over the past few months, and he was justifiably livid that it had chosen to present itself at the very moment when he needed clarity most.
Jack did not want to take into consideration the fact that it was his fault, rather than the compass', that it was functioning less than effectively. Obviously, the blasted thing was flawed for not being able to understand what he knew with every bit of his conscious mind: that what he most wanted was to save his own precious and devilishly handsome skin.
This was the thought he endlessly barraged the compass with. Jack doesn't want to die. Jack doesn't want to serve in Davy Jones' crew. Jack wishes you would make up your tiny enchanted mind and realize this.
And despite all that, the arrow continued to twirl.
Yet sometimes, late at night, once he finally managed to quiet his uncommonly distressed mind with the help of a friendly bottle of rum, he drifted off into drunken slumber and caught a glimpse of what was pushing that arrow away from familiar self-preservation.
Golden-brown hair flashing in the firelight, eyes flashing with a fire far stronger, a proud chin thrust forward and a will of steel.
In those fleeting midnight dreams, he could remember the way she felt cuddled against him on that island. He could hear her shouting pirate songs and dancing around like a heathen. He could feel his anger and inexplicable pride upon discovering that his rum had become the primary component of an extraordinarily effective smoke signal.
She was a lady and a warrior and a siren and many other things far, far more complex and enticing. She was like him and at the same time completely different.
She was also, ironically, completely unattainable.
Elizabeth Swann. Turner.
That was generally how such dreams ended, with the remembrance of a man he tried his damnedest not to like.
Will was another enigma Jack spent a considerable amount of time not trying to figure out. He was frustratingly loyal, moral, and monogamous. He had pirate blood but pacifist veins.
If it were any other man, Jack would have taken enormous pleasure in spiriting away the woman he loved to satisfy his own impulses. If he were any other man, Jack's compass would already be pointing unerringly in the direction of Davy Jones' key.
Perhaps it was respect for Bootstrap, perhaps gratitude for being saved from the gallows, or perhaps it was some tattered remnant of a moral code. Whatever it was, he could not consider betraying Will Turner in that way without feeling unpleasant and unusual squirmings in his gut. It made him feel dirty. Sullied.
And yet that persistent aching want for Elizabeth continued, vying unconsciously with self-preservation for dominance.
Jack threw the compass down angrily onto the map-strewn table in his cabin and looked out the window at the ocean roiling in the wake of the Pearl. He could feel time slipping past like the water outside. When it came to making progress, his ship could best any other in the Caribbean. However, no matter how quickly the Pearl went, it couldn't make any progress if its captain had no idea where his destination was. Time, on the other hand, was progressing quite nicely, sending Jack hurtling toward the unpleasant destiny of his own making.
He took a healthy swig from the bottle of rum on the table to dispel the cold panic creeping up his spine and looked at the tattered drawing of, literally, the key to Davy Jones' heart.
For a moment he was certain that there was nothing he wanted more than to be spared that fate, and he looked hopefully once more at the compass. For a split second, he thought he saw it pause in its wavering spin, but just as quickly it rocketed off in the opposite direction.
Jack's mind unwillingly wandered to a swan in a beautiful cage forged by a skilled blacksmith, its struggle for freedom restrained by affection and years of training.
The compass arrow continued its dance and Jack resigned himself to spending the rest of the night conducting a love affair with his now half-empty bottle of rum.