Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

A/N (important): AU. AFter CotPB, Will and Elizabeth returned to Port Royal and got married. Jack went on with pirate-y things. This story takes place 5 years later, when Jack meets Elizabeth in an unexpected place and the fairytale ending us nowhere in sight. (SMUT)


Elizabeth sat in front of the weathered vanity, her hand resting on the edge and her fingers lightly drumming as she stared at her changed reflection in the dusty mirror. She cleared the day's work out of her head, tried to forget the dirty room around her, and blocked out the rowdy shouts and vulgar noise from the bar below that reached her through the floorboards. It had been so long since she'd taken a good look at what she'd become.

The light in the room was dim, but her softly flickering candle provided enough light for her to study herself, even if it cast her face in a somewhat pale yellow glow. All for the better, perhaps; she wasn't sure she'd recognize herself anyhow. You can't really trust a mirror. It's nothing but a tool of young girls' vanity.

She reached up and dusted off the glass with her fingers, watching the particles of dirt swirling around in the air, looking for a new place to settle and build their grime. She sat on the vanity stool with a straight back and on hand resting idly in her lap, turning her head slightly left and right. Dark, kohl-lined eyes stared back at her, they eyelashes heavy and painted black and shades of gold powder brushed on the eyelids. Pink-rouged cheeks, for the misleading look of a young girl's modest blush, pursed lips with the remnants of red paint. Her hair, gathered in a dark black ribbon and pulled to the side to fall over one shoulder in a mass of perfumed and perfect curls, had lost its gold, and was now a rich chocolate with black streaked throughout it. A few curly tendrils framed her stoic face. Sandy brown eyes that had once been so fetching kept their color but lost their spark. Lost their naïveté.

Her skin was tan, still smooth and unblemished but no longer the valued alabaster of the British upper class. She liked it that way. There was no fragility, no sense of weakness. It attracted, brought thoughts of the wild and exotic to men, and endowed her with a darker beauty than the butterfly-like prettiness she'd once been too proud of. It made the gold earrings in her ears shine. She let her fingers drift to the opening of her gown, where the corset was loose, the tiny white strings dangling, and revealed the swell of her breasts and the dip of her cleavage. One sleeve fell off her shoulder, tailored loose purposely in the provocative fashion of her profession. The fabric of the dress was light, fell to her knees, cinched tightly around the waist and was cut open to the middle to reveal the corset beneath. It was a rich, deep red, adorned with black ribbons. One of the many vulgar costumes in her trousseau that made it easy to forget.

She wrenched her eyes away from the mirror and down to the mess of things spread out on the vanity before her. Open perfume bottles, ribbons, cigarettes, paints, useless trinkets. She took a cigarette between her fingers and lit it, closing her eyes as she inhaled. The mirror told her nothing. It showed what she was, not who she was. The answer to who she was was locked away where she could never find it, where she would never look. She knew who she had been. And that girl had been destroyed.

A tap sounded against the door across the room behind her. She barely turned her head, propped her foot up on the vanity and reached for the red paint before her, holding the cigarette out as she 

leaned forward, ignoring the knock. The door clicked open as she lifted the lip-brush to her lips and stroked the dark red over her lips; she raised her eyes to the room behind her in the mirror, finding who had entered. She flicked the cigarette forward, allowing the girl to advance, and pressed her lips together to even out the red.

The young girl came to her side and leaned against the vanity, watching Elizabeth touch up her make-up, her pretty red hair tumbling all over. She was new, an Irish lass, and idealistic wench. Elizabeth pitied her. She seemed no more than fifteen, though she called herself one and twenty, and her heavy make-up did nothing to take the youth and inexperience out of her eyes. Elizabeth leaned back and took another drag before turning to the girl called Molly and lifting an eyebrow.

"I was not to be disturbed," she said in a mild voice, noticing Molly's sigh and apologetic look.

"I've come to warn ye, Liz, she's—" before the girl could finish her warning was cut off by the brisk entrance of the bar mistress, a towel in hand and a matter-of-fact look on her once-beautiful face.

"Out, lass. Yer s'pose to be entertainin' downstairs." She snapped gruffly. Molly tossed her curls down her back and left the room, giving Elizabeth a shrug behind the mistress's back. Elizabeth gave her superior a slow, warning look and turned back to her mirror, bringing the cigarette to her lips again.

"Tell whoever it is I'm not available tonight." She said, knowing perfectly well what the older woman was here for.

"Now, missy, you be the best in this place and you now it well. An' I won' be turnin' this one down; he been a good customer here since afore you got yourself known as queen ah this brothel."

Elizabeth tapped her cigarette against the ash tray and let her chair slam to the croup, shaking the old floorboards. She turned to face the other woman and pressed her lips together angrily.

"Tell him I'm not working tonight," she repeated sharply, "and give him to one of the other girls. Scarlett, perhaps. She thinks I've been stealing her men."

"I's already offered up all me other girls and this'uns had most ah them anyways. You may lead your men around on a string, Miss Swann, but ye still work for me, and you've got a customer."

"He's asking for me then? He won't have any other whore in the sordid place?" Elizabeth gnashed, glaring at the bar mistress. For all the money she brought into this place, a moment's respite from the groping and groaning men should be nothing to ask.

"He be wantin' a brunette." The woman finished with finality, turning and almost stomping out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Elizabeth slammed her hand on the vanity in frustration and reached violently for a comb, jerking the ribbon out of her hair and arranging the curls about her shoulders and back and combing perfume through them. She threw the comb down and picked up the cigarette, propping her feet again on the vanity and leaning back in the chair. She brought the cigarette to her lips, then abruptly changed her mind and instead pressed the lit butt of it against her wrist, grinding her teeth against the sting, numbing herself. It would be a long night off if Madame couldn't say no to one drunken man.

She heard heavy footsteps on the wood and glanced at her face quickly, careful to hide all traces of disgust, and looked down to her corset, pulling the strings tighter to display her breasts better. She tossed the cigarette down in the ash tray, muttering quietly, and had just arranged her dress to satisfaction when she heard the door behind her. Business as usual.

She tilted her head coquettishly to the side and put her index finger between her teeth before speaking.

"You'll make this quick," she said, not a question at all, as she swiveled around in the chair in time—to her surprise—to hear her name called quite clearly in a shocked voice. She raised her eyebrow in sudden interest and looked around more quickly. Her chair slammed to the floor.

She looked at him, standing in the middle of her room with quite the rattled look on his face. She caught herself in enough time not to let her composure slip, not to show any sign of astonishment or embarrassment, and pulled her finger from her mouth with a soft pop.

"Jack Sparrow,"

Of all the whorehouses in all the world he walks into mine. Not that she really had leave to be surprised in any fashion. Wasn't this Tortuga? And didn't Scarlett ceaselessly blather on about the prowess of Jack Sparrow? So he was the brunette-seeking 'good customer'. Small world.

She allowed him his moment of stupefied appraisal before languidly getting up and shoving the stool away with a deft foot; she walked towards him slowly, trying not to remember the circumstances under which she's last seen him. Port Royal. Will. No. She stopped at tilted her head up at him, allowing a slow smile to spread across her lips.

"Fancy seeing you again." She said, her eyes scanning his face. She glanced over his shoulder to check that the door was shut soundly and pressed her palm against his coat, fingering the lapel as she would any other man. He pushed her back, hardly roughly but more in bewilderment.

"What are you doing here?" he asked harshly, looking at her as if he wasn't sure he even had the right person. She blinked, taken aback not by the tone of his voice but by the anguished expression of his dark eyes. She jerked her shoulders out of his grip and lifted an eyebrow at him, pulling the string of her corset so it loosened.

"Does a worldly man such as yourself need an answer to that question?" she replied tartly, not wishing to inspire any untoward questions. She stepped up to him again, and slid her hand up his shirt to its opening. He caught it tightly and stayed it, stepping back from her again.

"This isn't what I--I can't do this." He muttered, releasing her hand. Elizabeth let out a derisive laugh and raised her eyes to the ceiling, grabbing his wrist herself this time and digging her nail into the skin. She pulled him forward and turned him around, so she stood with her back facing the door, and gave him a hard look.

"You asked for a brunette."

"I didn't anticipate having the pleasures of your company, my dear," he replied sarcastically. Oh, what a gentleman. Was he unwilling because he saw her still as the innocent society girl mooning after the blacksmith? She'd shatter that illusion before he could blink twice. Elizabeth drew her finger along his cheek and over his lips seductively, pursing her lips.

"You wouldn't doubt my ability to perform, Captain?" she asked mildly, lowering her eyelids. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. When he opened them again, and spoke, his words were tense.

"I don't want this."

"You do," she said simply. "I see it. You may hide it here," she touched his lips, "but you can't hide it…here." She slid her hand to the waistband of his pants. His eyes flew open and he pushed her back determinedly.

"Where've you left your fine blacksmith, Miss Swann?"

Something dark flickered in her eyes and her jaw tightened. She gripped his lapel roughly and pulled his head towards her; her voice was angry when she spoke.

"Did you pay? Did you pay for me?" she demanded, stomping her foot against the floorboards, her face almost livid. Jack threw her hand away from him but she only took his wrist and held it uncomfortably twisted.

"I did,"

"Then you'll get what you paid for." She said coarsely, drowning out his words and shoving him backwards to the bed. She positioned her knees on either side of his thighs and pressed her lips harshly against his, shoving his coat off at the shoulder. She jerked his dirty white shirt over his head and rand her hands along his tanned chest, drawing her nails across the taut muscles, surprised at the sudden feeling of excitement. How nice for once to not fake passion in these demeaning moments. She pressed her lips against his neck, trailing her mouth over his shoulder and working the fastening of his ridiculous belt with her free hand. She stopped a moment to loosen the ties of her dress, to untie the bow at the waist and let the crimson fabric fall away to the white corset and nothing else. Jack grabbed her shoulder tightly and held her; his head was tilted back and his eyes closed tightly. He bit his lip; she took his mouth under hers again, slipping her tongue into the hot confines of his mouth, her hand still groping at the waistband of his breeches. She squeezed her knees against his thighs, finally tossing his belt aside and pushing through the buttons of his breeches. Jack slid his hand up her thighs and pressed her closer, his initial objection abandoned. She freed him from his breeches and broke the kiss, locking her arms behind his neck before she moved on him. He groaned; his head fell forward against her shoulder; he dug his nails into her back and thrust, pulling her hair and sliding his hands up her back to her shoulders. She pressed her knees against him again, his hot lips pressed into her neck, breathing heavily. His movement sent a shiver up her spine and she moaned softly; he thrust again and she kept her knees tight around him until she couldn't stand it and at the last gripped his shoulder tightly and cried out loudly, bringing him to his crescendo. He groaned again as he finished, and she collapsed against him, her curls ruined and wet, her flushed cheek resting on his broad shoulders.

His fingers were in her hair, he held her head in his hand, and his shoulders shook as he evened out his breathing. She felt his pulse against her cheek and closed her eyes, letting her head rest a moment longer where it lay. His familiarity was comforting, the warmth of his skin soothing, and seeing him, a living thing of her past, induced despair to creep into her mind though she railed against it, having disallowed any emotion but anger or indifference for so long now.

She lifted her head off his shoulder, avoiding his eyes, and moved off of him, plucking her dress off the floor and slipping on, tying the ribbon and lacing up the corset as she sat on the bed next to him, her knee touching his. He readjusted his clothing and got up, walking around the room to find where she'd unceremoniously tossed his coat and shirt. She turned her head, drawing her legs up on the bed beneath her, squeezing her ankle subconsciously. She watched him pull his shirt over his head with the familiar empty feeling. When he turned, and caught her watching him, she turned away indifferently and got up, pulling the string on her corset for no other reason than to make use of her hands. She picked up a new cigarette from the vanity; he caught her hand and threw it back down on the table, turned her towards him. His eyes were searching, he scanned her face, and she gave him no hint of any feeling.

"Elizabeth Swann," he said. She knew his tone. She hated it. She wanted to be alone, to wash him from her skin as she did all the meaningless others and possibly get good and drunk and never remember this night ever happened. It was one of those that would infinitely haunt her nightmares. Her dark, tormenting nightmares.

She didn't want him to look at her like he did now. He could keep his memory. The ones from the past or the one just created, he could take it with him, but she didn't want him here any longer. Not to ask questions or make statements or tease. She pulled her wrist out of his grip and picked up the cigarette again, holding it delicately between her fingers.

"It's been a pleasure," she said, with a mocking, aristocratic bow of her head. Turned towards the mirror again. She could barely keep her hand from shaking. So long since she'd seen a familiar face, and for it to be him to see her…to have her like this…and suddenly she hated her destroyer more than ever before.

He took her arm above the elbow and turned her back towards him and she reacted angrily, jerking her head around.

"What do you want?" she snapped viciously, almost desperately, her eyes darkening as they always did when she was angered. Jack looked back at her a split second, his own expression less-than-tender and let her go, roughly, so she took a few steps backward.

"You need a bloody strong drink," he snapped, striding across the room before she could stop him. He slammed the door behind him, making the floorboards shudder, and seized in a sudden fit of rage she picked up the nearest vial of perfume and threw it against the wall, allowing the loud shatter to mask her grunt of frustration. She collapsed onto the vanity stool again, refusing to look in the mirror, and pulled at her hair, fighting the urge to scream until her throat ripped.

She felt that annoying prick at her eyes that was less and less common these days, tears pulling at her after years of training herself not to ever, ever cry. And why she wanted to cry now she didn't know, she just knew seeing him again had ripped open old wounds and reminded her of a time when she was happy. She jerked open the top drawer of her vanity, reaching for the opium kept hidden and only used on the rarest occasions. She was not going to cry. She shoved her things out of the way and reached for a light—but the clicking of the door interrupted her again. She looked up; her teeth clenched, and saw him in the mirror. Drink in hand.


The straight shot of vodka sedated her violent mood. She faced him now, her back to the wretched mirror, still perched on the old vanity stool and leaning backward. Her cigarette lay in its ashtray, the embers glowing eerily at the end. He sat against the headboard of her bed, friendly bottle of rum in his hand, ignoring her wary glare.

"Of all the places I expected to run into ye again, lass," he said, popping the cork from the rum bottle expertly. He lifted it to his lips and drank. "This was not one."

"Expectations are rarely fulfilled to our fantasies." She answered sardonically, tapping her nails against the wood repetitively, hardly giving him any encouragement. She didn't understand his interest. Didn't know why he bothered to stay here, with her, in this dirty room above a tavern full of lawless drunks. "And I'm sure," she added suddenly, mockingly, "that was hardly the reunion you anticipated, even in your most salacious dreams."

"Hardly," he agreed, raising his bottle to her. She looked away and picked up the glass resting near her hand on the table. She examined it and set it back down, ringing her nail against it to fill the silence. He shifted, drawing his booted leg up to rest his arm on and kept his keen eye on her. His gaze was unnerving. Like he was peeling away her skin and staring into the depths of her shredded soul.

"'Ave you been lifting your skirts around Tortuga long? Or is this a recent endeavor the general boredom of life with a eunuch blacksmith has induced?" He queried surreptitiously, watching her sharply to catch any alteration in her detached demeanor. Nothing but a stiff look.

"Two years," was her informative reply, hard and unfeeling. His eyes drifted to the hand that rested on her knee and he made note of its telling nakedness in the jewelry department. She seemed to be made of steal. There was no warmth in her any longer. No vivacity. Just coldness.

"What I find intriguing," he started, lifting his hand in front of his face and examining it needlessly, "is the as of yet unknown reason that you ended up in this hovel when I clearly remember leaving you as the blushing bride of your dearest Mr. Turner."

The stool slammed the floor, the noise crisp and loud in the sudden silence.

"That didn't work out." She hissed savagely, her eyes as black as he'd ever seen them. He noticed her absently reach down and twist her ring finger; the finger he'd already seen had lost its adornment.

"Then I'm not to refer to you as Mrs. Turner?"

She did not grace him with an answer. She turned away suddenly and picked up her cigarette, tapping the ashes off before lifting it to her lips. Jack leaned forward, aware that he'd touched a nerve and regretting any words he'd said that might have hurt her. Elizabeth. What a cruel place the world was, if its fates and trials could turn this spirited girl into a common whore. In a quick moment she whirled to face him, he could almost detect an increase in wetness in her empty eyes.

"What do you want with me?" she demanded, standing up so fast the stool tumbled over behind her. She dropped the cigarette to the floor, where smoke curled up from the edge and disappeared into the air. She stomped it with the heel of her slipper. He let the bottle drop to the floor and got up from her bed, standing across the room from her. "Do not look at me like that!" she whispered, closing her eyes and swallowing.

"I never wanted to find you in a place like this." He told her. "You shouldn't be here." she tossed her head and threw her eyes to the ceiling, her snort of laughter scornful.

"Because the idea of a prim society girl like me spreading my legs for the commoners seems wrong to you? Because your morality tells you that my being on my knees in front of these vulgar men is indecent?"

He crossed the room quickly and took her wrist, shaking her.

"Stop it," he growled, wanting to cover his ears. As hysterical as her words might sound, her composure was still nothing but the calculated coolness, the sarcasm that she'd first welcomed him with. She didn't realize how different she was from all of the other sluts in all of the other brothels. "I don't know what brought you to this, love, but it's far below what you're worth."

That stopped her struggling. She looked up at him, letting her wrist lie still in his grip, and shook her head, her eyebrows slanted and furious. When she found his eyes, his grim look drained the anger from her and she let her arm drop; his fingers loosened the second her shoulders lost their irate tenseness.

"What I'm worth," she sneered, dark laughter in her voice. She turned away and returned to the bed, settling on it with her arm slung over the post at the end. "Thirty pounds and a good fuck."

The words tore at his head, coming from her. What had happened in these years, since rescue by the battlements? He shuddered to know, unwitting of anything that could ruin her so completely. He crossed the room and stood before her; she looked up without encouragement, her eyes hollow, and the vileness of her lewd statement still ringing in the air.

"Get out of this mess." He said sharply, going on before she spat out her retort. "Come on the Pearl with me. Get out of here."

"No." she stood, rejecting him defiantly, refusing to accept what she could only assume to be misplaced pity. She heard the sudden sound of a bell in the distance and looked back at him. "You'll be going or they'll find you here and charge you."

"You won't rot in this hellhole."

"If you want to help me," she said in a low, softer voice, "leave me alone." When she raised her eyes to his again, she didn't find kindness.

"You think you can live this the rest of your life?" he growled, glaring at her. She wanted to push him away; she had to have him out of this room and out of this port now—but something in his uncharacteristic concern stopped her from chucking the nearest heavy object at him. She closed her eyes and opened them again slowly. She reached up and pulled his head down to hers, standing on tiptoes and pressing her forehead against his. She wanted to keep this. She needed to have this, some kind of moment to hang onto when she felt the will to live sleep away. She wanted to hate the world and its cruelty and then remember that someone had showed enough interest to tell her she was better.

"One more time," she whispered, her lips brushing against his. "For old times' sake." She covered his mouth with hers and drank him in, savoring the taste of ocean salt and rum on his sun-chapped lips, breaking her cardinal rule to never forgo taking payment for her favors. With this, at least she wouldn't be haunted by the memory of her reunion with the man who'd once saved her life as just another customer.

Jack wrapped his arms around her and drew her close; loathe to taking this wanton advantage of her and at the same time sensing the softening in her muscles. His hand reached for the ties of her corset, and again the dress was loosened and disposed to the floor. She pushed his coat off again and he let his fingers sink into every inch of her visible skin; she parted her lips from his and moaned. He pushed her back towards the bed until her knees pressed against the edge and bend; she let him lean her back until she was stretched out with him holding her beneath him, his mouth again hot against her neck. She relieved him of his shirt again, and he removed the corset, baring all her skin this time, running his hands over her stomach and ribs. She raked her nails down his bare back and pulled his mouth to hers again, her fingers removing his belt with no difficulty this time. He maneuvered his breeches expertly. She lifted her knees and wrapped one leg around his waist, pressing her heel into the small of his back.

"Lizzie," he groaned against her lips. She arched her back until she felt him; he didn't hesitate and she didn't need him too. It was her head against his shoulder, her nails scarring his back, and his arms that steadied her. Her breathing heightened, she squeezed his shoulders tightly, arching her back still, heat pooling in the pit of her stomach. He crushed his lips against hers again, his hand knotted in her dark hair. She dug her heel into his back and let his name slip from her lips, pushing her forehead against his, her eyes closed. His shoulders convulsed, he thrust, Elizabeth cried out, heat breaking over her, her body shaking as he collapsed next to her, their legs still tangled in the mussed sheets around them.

It seemed they lay for hours, sweaty and hot, among the sheets, his strong arm slung over her waist, his legs hooked in hers and her head on the relaxed muscles of his biceps. Still unsteady from their passionate coupling, turned her head away from him and stared at the foot of the bed, recalling other times and other men. Broken, suppressed memories of other nights with one man surfaced in her mind.

"I'd forgotten it could be like this."

She felt him shift. His hand on her spine startled her and her muscles tightened suddenly. He drew his finger once from her neck to her waist; reached over and pulled the hair off her face and pressed his lips against the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, feeling him get up. The floorboards creaked as he moved around, gathering his clothing. Leaving.

She hated herself. He looked at her and saw the girl he used to know and she hated him for that. He didn't know. He wasn't there for those three years that ripped away illusions and fantasies and blatantly displayed her foolishness. He didn't know she'd seen her dreams go up in smoke and had her heart broken until she couldn't find the pieces to pick up and fix herself. He just saw her now, and how he had seen her. She didn't know what it was. Maybe the soft whisper of Lizzie against her sleeps in the heat of the moment, maybe the knowledge that even if he could never, ever change it all, he could offer respite, but she gathered the sheets around her and sat up to see him standing in the open doorway, one hand on the doorknob.

"Jack," she called softly. He turned around.

"I want out of here."


"of all the whorehouses in all the world"--play on a line from CASABLANCE

title taken from a song by the CDM CHARTBREAKERS

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