A/N: Elizabeth's point of view. I do like the girl, very much. Wrote it in first person present to sort of heighten the effect. Hope you all like it, and I'm glad to see this category is starting to take the snowball/bandwagon road. Ride, boldly ride, my readers and fellow riders!

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Never Again

 

I admit to having expected more out of him. Why, I don't know, but there has always been a part of me that has wished to see the best in people, rather than what sorts such as my father and Commodore Norrington saw in the likes of Jack Sparrow.

Pirate or no pirate, I had fooled myself into thinking he was a good man simply because his had been the arms to wrap around me, and deliver me from what I had feared since my childhood – a cold place, dark, with no room to breathe or think save for the dreadful knowing you might never taste the sweet air again.

That is what I had Mr. Sparrow to thank for, though I was too stubborn to admit it.

I had expected far too much out of Captain Jack Sparrow, but I swear on the grave of my mother that I had seen something in him that none other had. Before we were all separated, Jack had looked over at Will with an expression I couldn't distinguish. Apologetic, perhaps? Fear, for Will's life (and undoubtedly his own)? Regret? Part of him, I believe, cares for Will, though the rest of him seems to be in a constant whirlwind of contradictions of his own character.

Jack couldn't have decided if he wanted to break his own record of being a self-serving, dishonest, blackguard without an ounce of loyalty flowing in those twisted red veins of his or trade in the one who saved his life for the keep of a ship. And now he's drunk.

Four hours of singing and drinking and romping around in the sand has taken its toll on me. My legs feel like lead weights and there's a twinge that keeps shooting up from my heels and into the tops of my knees. It must be the shifty sand, I'm not used to it, but even though all our misfortune is shackled to my mind I still enjoy the way it feels between my bare toes. It's very fine, and white like crystals, and when I curl my toes it crunches. Brings a smile to my otherwise disappointed face.

Jack is beside me, flat on his back with his knees slightly bent and his trousers rolled just above them. The childish, fidgety part of me wants to reach over, grab a handful of his leg hair and twist just to get a rise out of him, but in his present state I doubt he'd even feel it.

I glance casually over my shoulder to see if he's still awake, and through the shadows of the trees and the clouds I catch the shine of his dark eyes in the firelight. Jack is thinking about something, clearly, but if he's thinking about anything other than rum I'll be surprised. With a roll of my eyes I turn away again, and rest my elbow on my knee, holding my own bottle to the fire and moonlight. I don't care for it, but right now I could use any amusement to take my mind off of Will.

Will.

The rum sloshes around in the glass, catching different angles of light and creating patterns of caged color in its waves. It's quite pretty, this vile drink, with its amber coloring and smooth texture. Alright, yes, I did have a few sips – but in my situation I think anyone would. I feel…alone right now, that is the only word I can find to describe myself. Alone, and despite the fire, cold. Alone and doubtful – Jack's laugh makes me nearly jump out of my skin and for a moment I wish I were alone. What could possibly be so funny to him? I don't bother asking.

Instead, I look to the waves. They shimmer in the moonlight, and fold over themselves, and hiss and rustle and sing while trying to reach the fire we built. Our first fire, well, Jack wasn't using that intellect I know he has, and he built it far too close to the water – and when the tide came in it didn't stand a chance. Call me bigheaded, but he's lucky to have me here.

Since that random outburst of laughter, Jack hasn't said a word. I wonder if he's passed out yet, and I'm about to turn my head to confirm my suspicions, but he has already soundlessly risen to a sitting position. Once again my heart is sent into painful spasms. I gasp so sharply my own breath scours my throat, and when he makes that "what did I do wrong" puppy face at me I grit my teeth and growl savagely at him.

"Make more noise when you move, blithering bastard!" I snap, and instead of becoming rigid with offense he cocks his head and regards me curiously.

"You kiss yer mum w'th that mouth, love?" When I glance over to pin him with another murderous glare his pale lips part to reveal a gold-rittled smile, and he blinks slowly at me in his half-concious state. His eyes, dark brown and uncaring, are cloudy with drink in the failing light. I've seen drunken men before, but considering Jack's tendencies to seem drunk even when he's sober, this is intolerable. He's sitting somewhat behind me, enough to let his wrist drape over my shoulder.

I have turned away from him, but I hear him lift his bottle and take a long swig of its contents. With a little groan I wriggle away, and fold my arms over my knees to let my chin rest upon them. My rum, the glass, is cold against my bare ankle.

"You're in no singin' mood now, are ye?"

"You might say that."

"Well…" The sound of rum splashing the sides of his wide-ended bottle. An appreciative groan after a loud swallow. "Ah just did."

I've never felt so helpless, so unable to do anything. I'm on a beach with the most ridiculous human being to ever sail the face of the earth, drinking rum, and Will is going to die in a matter of hours. I have tried fighting that dread, tried to convince myself to be open, to have faith in Will. To have faith in myself, thinking perhaps I'll may come up with some ingenious plan to get off of this island. But Jack has given me absolutely no reason to.

My attempts to get Jack completely, utterly and hopelessly drunk haven't been exactly successful. He's drunk, but obviously has a high tolerance for rum. Just when I think he's out, he springs up and starts blabbering on about meaningless sea stories (the half of them probably aren't true). I feel the heat of his body as he leans closer, swaying in his usual unsteadiness. His chest brushes the prominent bone of my shoulder, and I shiver.

"Jack," I say his name as if it tastes like candy on my tongue, and I get an immediate reaction. He pulls back as if afraid Commodore Norrington will leap out of the bushes and loop a noose around his scruffy neck, probably wondering why my mood has suddenly changed. I crane my neck back to look him in the foggy brown eyes, sure to keep my own expression as easy as if I had consumed half my bottle. "Jack…I feel terrible."

"Too much rum, then?"

"No, no…" I let myself fall back into the sand, my hair spilling around my head and my rum bottle held in plain sight above me. "I'm beginning to take your liking to my rum, Mr. Sparrow…don't think there could ever be 'too much rum'…" I flick my eyes toward him, seeing the underside of his chin and his heavy-lidded, shadowy eyes regarding me with almost suspicious curiosity (though not coherently). "Oh, there I go…rambling again…"

"You keep ye ramblins on, lassie, they don't bother me." He grins down at me again, the reflection of the fire dancing in his gold teeth and making him look ferocious and extremely dull-witted all at once. Jack gives my shoulder a hard slap, and I manage to turn my cry of surprise into a delighted laugh. "Drink up!"

"I'm not finished yet!"

"Oh, go on then, Bethy."

"I was going to say," I pull myself up quickly with a little sway in my efforts, and drag in a deep breath of sea air. I let my weight all shift to my palms, and toss my head to look back at him as if holding my neck up was the most difficult task I can conceive. "That I feel terrible for calling you a blithering bastard, Mr. Sparrow. Absolutely terrible!" I lie. He deserved every word of it.

Jack shrugs with both shoulders, his movements slow but exaggerated. "No harm done."

"Well that's not all I feel terrible about."

Jack pauses in mid-swig to frown at me, his dark brows coming together over his equally dark eyes and making him look, if it's possible, even more drunk. He glances around, and finally finishes his long swallow of rum. "Well go on, then."

"I should've fought those pirates off," I whine softly, turning my position to face him fully and setting the absolute poutiest expression I can manage. For once I feel my looks more a gift than a curse, for in the end, I have learned, men are all the same. Though I take no pleasure in the thought.

"Bloody pirates," Jack titters drunkenly with a quick grin, wry and so very Jack-like. He stares lovingly at his half-full bottle of rum, and I frown at his shift of attention. With a whimper in my throat, I once again catch his eyes with mine. "What's th'matter, lass?"

"I should've fought them," I scowl, and tilt my head back to take my own swallow of rum. From the corner of my eye I see him regarding me with new interest, his gaze traveling over me as if he can't decide whether or not he feels right about looking me over. I'm surprised – I never expected hesitance out of Sparrow. Self-consciousness. I like it. When I turn back to him my face is more distraught than I think myself capable of faking.

Jack makes a face, and turns back to his rum. I only sigh. "I should have just…fought until I dropped, Jack! Fought till I dropped…"

"Don't blame yourself, Lizzy –"

"I thought I was Bethy."

"Right, right, wasn't your fault," Jack mumbles, his eyes drifting back to me and his face falling back into that sleepy content look. "Most ladies like you'self wouldn't stand a chance. Can't fight, not your fault."

"Jack…"

"You," Jack interrupts me and I start. He dares to touch me just above the shadow of my cleavage, giving me a little shove with his forefinger. "Need to learn t' fight, Lizabeth." Jack has completely fallen to slurs, and I can barely understand what he's saying. He catches me off guard, and comes groggily to his feet, his toes lost in the white sands. Jack holds his hands up before him like he's trying to balance himself.

Those ridiculous pieces of hair he tosses from his face, and suddenly he's seizing my wrist and pulling me to stand. I catch myself studying his hands, his fingers, and their grip on me. He's not squeezing with his full potential; his strength is probably nearly gone from his consumption of drink. His fingers are long, and rather dirty. Streaked with black, soot or dirt – but also calloused with years of experiences. I like them, and the thought strikes. It enters me like a criminal, throwing me off balance.

I like Jack Sparrow's hands.

"Ye ready, love, or are me mitts too fascinating?" Jack drawls with the sound of a grin in his voice, and I quickly snap up to meet his eyes. He is no longer smiling or grinning, for once. His face is still. I, however, give myself a little sway and close my eyes, leaning into him with a melodramatic sigh.

"Show me to fight, Captain Sparrow!" I say, seeming hopelessly impassioned with drink -- and proud I am of my ability to fool him into this. My eyes are sensitive to the light, I realize. The fire is now burning so bright it's near painful. However, Jack smirks at me best he can, and sets his rum beside him in the sand. I wonder if he's going to topple over again.

Instead, he gestures to his jaw with a clumsy wave, and runs a square fingertip over the short dark hair lining it. "Right then, give ol' Jack a hard one right 'ere," Jack says, and leans forward a bit. I put both fists up and frown at my own clumsiness. I feel sick with the rum I consumed, little as it was, but I do manage to keep focus.

Jack grins at me, revealing his gold teeth scattered among his white ones, and those ridiculous beads in his hair dangle around his darkened face as if coaxing me. He seems ready to take any hit I give out. I blink slowly; attempting to keep my concentration and hoping my hit will maybe, finally knock him out.

Jack begins to say something, but I've already thrown my fist out as hard as I can. My knuckles crack painfully against his face in their strike, and Jack stumbles into the sand with a muffled cry and his eyes as wide as tea saucers. His expression when he finally looks up at me, only his eyes not covered by both hands, is that of a kicked puppy.

"Jack!" I hear genuine concern in my voice. In a moment I'm on my knees beside him, guiding him to a sitting position. "Oh, Jack, I'm – I'm sorry!" Now I just sound spiteful, and Jack looks at me incredulously, both brows furrowed in confusion as if I've just sprouted horns.  He rubs his jaw tenderly, and with his other hand he grabs his rum. He shakes his head, and his dark hair rattles his decorations.

"Some got it and some don't, mate," Jack says, exhaling hard and tossing his head back with the bottle. Well, he certainly recovers quickly. At this rate I'll have to gag him with his own locks of hair – though it doesn't seem too difficult, he has enough of it.

Instead, I curl my fingers around the neck of my own bottle, and drag myself along the sand until I'm sitting right beside him. My hip bumps his, and through the thin material of my underwear I feel the hard stitches of his trousers press into my thigh. Pirates are certainly tolerant of uncomfortable clothing; I'll give them that. Jack turns his head to give me a curious look, probably at the familiarity of our present situation.

"Jack, how did you manage it?"

"Manage… what, lovey?"

"Three days. An island. Nothing but the sky, the sea, and your sheer will to stay alive!" I think I'm over doing it. Thankfully Jack is far too drunk to notice at this point.

"Ah…" He sounds full to the gills with rum, and holds a finger up as if it will help him find the right words. "Eh…didn't…we go over this?"

"Yes, but you never told me," I say softly, and again I find a way to get closer to him. I lean into his front, resting my head high on his chest. His heart, and its steady rhythm, ride the waves, and I breathe him in. Jack smells of sweet rum. Rum and leather mixed with the heat from his body, the two mingling to send a shiver down my spine. I feel comforted now…by his side, for the moment at least. There is a soothing element to his scent, his shoulder…the warmth of his half-sleeved arm as it snakes around me.

I realize how I want to hear his voice. How all my earlier disagreeable thoughts are somewhere else now. Perhaps I'm more intoxicated than I thought. I nuzzle his old, dry cotton shirt, and I feel the muscles in his shoulder shift as he looks down at me. "Tell me about your adventure," I encourage, and the warmth he eminates is heavenly compared to the air blowing off the sea. I find myself inching even closer. "Tell me, Jack."

"Well," he starts, and his chest vibrates with his words. I like the feeling. "Not much to tell, love, just like you said: three days on a beach with," Jack raises his bottle, and I feel his arm crawl along my back as he moves it up. "…Rum. Only me rum."

"Well surely you were lonely," I prompt, turning my face up to look him in his cloudy dark eyes, but he doesn't seem to see me. For the first time all night he doesn't look back at me. Jack sees something, something far away that I can't see – something too deep for me to feel. I touched a nerve, and guilt flows into my comfort.

Part of me dances in triumph, for now I know that Jack Sparrow does feel! While my other part can only stare at him, wondering what it was that could have branded these memories into his mind. I wish I could end all of this. I wish Will were back in his work place, back home, safe…so far from harm that not even the hot wind of a Caribbean night could reach him.

With a long sigh, I draw away from Jack, disappointed when the chill of the sea breeze rushes in to replace the comforting warmth of Jack Sparrow. I remain sitting beside him, the two of us in silence and thought. I don't know what Jack is thinking of, but I know what I am hoping for. Jack reaches up with his rum to drain the bottle, and when the last few drops have slid down the glass and down into his throat he sets his head forward, and frowns at it.

"Bugger," He mutters, begrudgingly tossing it aside and inhaling deeply. Before my mind even again registers my intentions of drinking with Jack, I just pass my bottle onto his lap and offer him a slow half-smile.

"Have mine," I say in a soft voice, barely audible even to my own ears. It is lost in the rushing of the waves, but Jack shifts his black-wreathed eyes over to my face, taking in the curves and shadows of my features. He is studying me. Once again, his gaze catches the orange light of our dying fire, and those dark brows furrow into a sort of suspicious regard. I nudge his leg with the bottom of the rum. "Go on, I'm full."

Dry, calloused skin and leather stripes cover my fingers around the neck of the bottle, and I suddenly taste Jack Sparrow on my lips. It's a shock at first, the feel of them – soft, but as dry as his hands, and the tickle of his mustache is a new sensation – my other suitors were generally clean-shaven. But like his hands, his lips are a comfort, something to hold and be held by, something to let explore me and tell me in silence that I'm beautiful, that I'm wanted.

I think he is about to end it, but he doesn't. Jack's movements are slow and deliberate, even though his intoxication still gives him the vibrations of an off-balance pirate having had far too much to drink. I taste the rum on his lips, and the salt of the air seems to cling to him.

And yet I end it. He is reluctant to release me, but he does, and I let go the bottle we were holding on to. Part of me feels gone; for that was a kiss I was saving for one I would give my life to have here instead of myself. I raise my eyes to Jack, and despite his unsteady posture, he is locked on my gaze with unreadable dark eyes. Then he cracks a little smile, and lifts the bottle of rum I gave him to his lips. He hesitates before swigging, and Jack holds a hand up good-naturedly.

"Never again, love?"

"No," I tell him, and my throat aches with threatening tears as my thoughts turn back to my absent friend. To Will. My head shakes slightly, and the chilly sea air sweeps my disheveled hair past my face in time to hide my tears. Jack finishes off my rum as well, and as expected he drops the bottle into the sand. The valiant Captain Sparrow slumps forward with an inaudible groan at my side, and as I pull myself to my feet the corner of my mouth quirks. "Never again."

~end~