I don't own Elizabeth or Teague.


Teague's presence loomed over her and she felt meek; small in all sense of the word.

His piercing eyes made her feel as if she was made of transparent glass. So easy to see through he need barely look. And yet he stared intensely, as if she would disappear when he removed his gaze or even lessened it slightly. She very much wanted to and yet didn't at the same time. She couldn't stand his company for how familiar he looked and yet she couldn't bare to be alone.

His eyes, his hair, his posture, his clothes, his face...Her heart ached fiercely again for everything she'd come to know and everything she'd lost.

"So yer the slight thing that managed to kill Jack?"

She shuddered at his voice. It was like listening to milk and honey being spread over raw silk, with just enough spice to account for the husk.

Her heart desperately called out for its fellow bird and like always there was no reply.

And she couldn't bear to be alone so she shrugged.

Her voice was flat, steady, even as she simply stated, "I wasn't so slight then."

He seemed taken aback by her answer and smirked cruelly.

"Remorse ain't being kind to ye then I see."

Elizabeth sneered, "Maybe it would be kinder if there was remorse to be found."

Teague stared at her unrelenting, and she suddenly wished she had indeed tried to escape. Then she'd have given him a reason to shoot her and this would be over; her pain and his interrogation.

Suddenly he barked a laugh, harsh and sharp, and with no humour at all. She flinched. HE had laughed like that once, not so very long ago. She'd sooner die then have that dagger drawn against her again. And whether she was talking metaphorically, or physically she wasn't quite sure.

"If it ain't remorse...Captain Lizzie, then what would you call yer current state of..." he gestured at her agressively and she knew exactly what he was referring to.

She was unwashed, unfed, and unwatered,all of her own accord. She looked like a starving waif and yet she couldn't bring herself to care. At least when she ached from hunger it was easy to pretend she wasn't aching from something else, something not returned.

She only stared at him though, not once looking away because of shame or guilt. She had no remorse. She had done no wrong, in her own mind. She had no heart. She was a...well. She still believed she wasn't guilty.

Instead of admitting defeat she took a swig of rum and gave him a shark's grin.

"Penance."

He stared again and she stared back. Then he pulled out his pistol, quicker than she could blink.

"I should kill ye lass," he growled in his most intimidating voice. She shivered again, and whether it was from memory or starvation, she wasn't sure.

"You would be doing me a favour Captain," she said emotionlessly, and took a long pull of her bottle.

His hand kept steady as he quirked his head in a way that was so JACK she thought she'd splinter into a million pieces. But she didn't and he kept staring. She stared back.

Finally he growled again and put his pistol away.

"Be a waste o' me bullets," he said gruffly.

She nodded like that was the answer she was expecting and took another swig.

He grabbed his own rum off the desk roughly and barked at her.

"Well ye can go lass, I don't expect ye t' stay in me company any longer than strictly necessary."

She didn't flinch at his tone, and stared blankly ahead swirling what was left of her drink in the bottle with nothing more than her finger tips gripping the neck.

"I like your rum," she said with no emotion. It was fact. Fact was simple. No room for misunderstanding, nothing bad to come of good intentions. No hurt feelings and no ill will. Simple.

Teague looked at her in that unnerving way again, but this time his eyes sparkled with something other than malice. It was something she knew well, and yet felt relunctant to name.

Finally he nodded, "Aye lass, this is the good stuff."

So they stayed in his study that night, and all of the nights after. He stayed because he had nowhere better to be, and didn't want to dirty his bullets. She stayed because she had nowhere to go, and she enjoyed his rum. And if both of them were lying to themselves, well neither mentioned it or the origin of their soul crippling regret.

But neither of them ever took down the painting that hung beside his desk like some kind of mocking monument to their guilt, or an altar for their hearts. They both agreed silently, they deserved the pain of seeing his face. It was their penance after all.