Chapter 4: Scar-gazing

Several hours before the impromptu captain-captain meeting aboard the Black Pearl, Lieutenant Morgan sat on the bed that had been made for him in a room of his commanding officer's estate in Southampton. The Navigator had arrived in Southampton only a few hours before, and now that it was nearly sunset, he was instead to speak to the admiral on the morrow. He hadn't even informed his family who lived nearby that he had finally arrived after a lengthy trip to the Caribbean and back. Morgan had removed his hat and frockcoat and was now staring at the small chest on the floor by his feet.

Damn that Longfellow boy for being there when the chest was discovered, he mused, stroking his stubbly chin with a calloused hand. I would have noticed it sooner or later, but the little brat beat me to it. If he hadn't been present, I could have easily hidden the chest from my men. It's not as if it can be opened, anyway. Complete control of the seas lies in simply possessing this chest… I've heard of the East India Trading Company controlling Davy Jones in this way. Yet… how exactly did they summon Jones?

He stood up, a thought occurring to him, and strolled towards his room's balcony, which overlooked Southampton's main harbour, the hustle and bustle of the travelers and traders even evident by night.

I'm closer to the harbour than I first thought. Mayhap I will be able to see the Dutchman from here….

Morgan fetched the chest from its position on the floor, and walked back over to the balcony, stepping through the glass paned doors and taking in a strong whiff of sea breeze. Craning his neck to the right to watch the sun set on the horizon, a pleased smile on his face, he began to shake the chest. Slowly at first. Jolting it about harder and harder until he could hear the heartbeats without first needing to place his ear against the chest. The squishy, juicy thudding when the heart jostled about inside causing his stomach to lurch a bit… ignoring his stomach and shaking it with all his might for what seemed like forever… but then he saw it—a flash of green on the horizon.

"No," Elizabeth said, "remove it completely. It keeps falling in the way."

"Bloody hell," was Beckett's exasperated reply, as he tried to slip his hand into a sleeve of the shirt dangling about his neck, while he sat on the bed in front of Elizabeth. "Just forget it."

Elizabeth gave him a teasing smile, even though he could not see it.

"Suddenly shy, are we? I've seen you with your shirt off before, you know."

This teasing statement both irritated and excited Beckett, who shoved his hand the remainder of the way through the sleeve. He had to play his latter feeling down.

"Ha. As if that was the case," he snapped irritably. "You've seen more of me than most anyone I can think of."

"Really," she said dryly.

Immediately he realized he had most likely revealed too much, even though his confession had been true. Most certainly no one besides Elizabeth and the Pearl's crew had ever seen a fully exposed rear view of him as when he had been strapped across the cannon to be flogged. He would never have allowed himself to be degraded in such a way, but he had been forced. And unlike Elizabeth, the Pearl's crew had not seen him shirtless. He had been too out of it after the flogging to recall Elizabeth and the crew seeing the front of him as well, while he was being dragged back to the brig. Elizabeth had seen just about all of him, though only one half at a time, of course….

He remained in his reverie as Elizabeth watched him closely, her eyes glittering with mischief. When he didn't respond or even look back at her, she rolled her eyes and returned to seriousness.

"Take off your shirt, Beckett," she snapped.

He gave her an irritated glance.

"Cutler," she corrected.

Feeling a line of chills run up his spine at the mention of his name and the command to remove an article of clothing, Beckett hid his anticipation with a sigh and roll of eyes as he slipped his hand out of the sleeve and then slipped the shirt over his head, laying it on the bed next to him.

He turned sideways and looked back at her, their eyes meeting. Ignoring the automatic throbbing of her heart, was it?, resulting from this gaze, Elizabeth raised her hand towards Beckett's back. Dropping his eyes to follow her approaching arm, he placed his hand on her forearm, lowering it back to the bed.

"What are you doing?"

A smirk played about his mouth. His intense gaze was too much for her, and so she started glancing around. It was then she saw the scar across his stomach. He caught her roving eye and she immediately became embarrassed, grasping for words.

"Where'd you get that?" she said, her gaze on the scar. It was a likely enough reason to be staring at that particular region of his body.

"Where'd I get what," he replied slowly, refraining from following her eyes.

"That," she said, pointing at the scar.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific." His smirk was now a smile.

"That scar there."

He looked down, acting as if he couldn't see the scar.

"Where?"

Elizabeth reached her finger out and touched the scar, running her finger along the purple ridge of the healed wound. His stomach rose and fell under her touch, as he became acutely aware of every breath he was taking. All of a sudden, he coughed, and she jerked her hand back as if burned.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"You coughed, so obviously you wanted me to stop—"

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"You needn't have stopped what you were doing. There is nothing wrong with being curious."

Oh, just the freedom to be able to touch him, to be able to be near a man and yet not be doing something wrong in doing so. Obviously I overstepped my boundaries in the Azores, but it didn't amount to anything, did it? Besides, he had been the one to initiate it then… and this is just wound-doctoring.

Suddenly, her hand was within his, as he directed it back to the scar, placing it on the warm flesh. She gulped.

"Go ahead; you can touch it," he said, smiling broadly. "It's a rather odd texture, eh? Nothing to fear."

For a moment she gazed up at him, and feeling utterly bashful, dropped her eyes to the scar. It was a rather long scar, with an upturned curve at either end, much like the shape of a C lying on its back.

"What happened to you," she murmured, entranced by her own fingers moving smoothly across his stomach. He shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to explain. Bloody hell, why couldn't she have discovered the scar on my thigh instead?

"Have you seen the P on Sparrow's wrist," he remarked.

"Yes."

"Well, that was the mark I left on him. This—" he said, looking down at his stomach, at her fingers moving through the light-colored hair around the region of the scar, "is the mark he left on me."

He shifted around very gradually so that he was more squarely facing her, as they both sat on her bed. Thankfully for him, she didn't move her hand away this time.

"Did it happen at the same time he was branded—"

"No. Afterwards." He looked back down at her hand, which was now moving slightly upwards on his stomach along the trail of hair running from his chest to his navel, and, noticing that her hand was straying from the path of the scar, he tried ever so hard not to smile unabashedly. This was rather fun, even though the subject matter was not.

"Did you and he have a swordfight, or something?"

Beckett cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Something along those lines. Rather boring story. I'd rather not explain all the tedious details."

In truth, he was embarrassed. It was a story that shouldn't be divulged, if he wished to retain any sense of self-respect.

"Do you have any other scars?" she suddenly blurted, removing her hand from his stomach. Truth to tell, she rather liked when Jack had divulged the origin of all of his battle scars, be they burns, gunshot wounds, stab wounds, or slice wounds, when they both had been marooned alone upon a small island by Barbossa.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he replied, the anticipation of this moment nearly killing him. How was he to show her the wound on his thigh? It was much too high up to roll up the stiff fabric of his breeches, but then there also was the issue of pulling the breeches down….

"Where are they."

"My thigh, for one," he matter-of-factly stated, feeling his throat go dry and heart beat noticeably speed up.

"Oh," she replied, shame in her voice.

"Would you like to see it?"

"Well-I—I"

"I consider it my battle scar," he said with an impish grin. "I received it while in the Royal Navy. From all the suturing that had to be done—"

"Well, alright," she said, shocked that she had agreed so quickly. But there's nothing wrong with this… I'm just going to see a scar. A rather significant scar, one that's important to him. Yes, that's all it is….

His breath caught in his throat as he glanced down at his lower body. How am I going to do this without causing her to be offended—or worse?

"Alright," he said, clearing his throat. "I'd ask you to temporarily close your eyes, then."

"Why—" she began to say, but upon looking down and seeing him place his hands at the waistband of his breeches, shut her eyes without another word.

He smiled unabashedly, lifting his body off the bed as he snaked his breeches downwards. Thankfully unlike most men of the age he always wore underdrawers—they could be rolled up to reveal the scar. Even so, being already shirtless and soon partially breeches-less, he was essentially disrobing in front of her. Beckett pulled his breeches down to his knees, and then began rolling up the underdrawers from where they hung at knee-level up to thigh-level.

Behind the curtain of her eyelids Elizabeth was distraught, listening to Beckett's fumblings with cloth and whatnot. What am I going to open my eyes to see? If I do see something inappropriate, how should I react?

Soon the faded yet ugly wound was revealed in all its glory. Beckett glanced down at it for a moment, noticing his skin turning pink, and then looked up at Elizabeth, her eyes still shut tightly closed.

"You can open your eyes now," he said, sucking in a breath of air, as she obeyed.

Immediately her eyes moved to the bare skin of Beckett's thigh, widening as she saw the remnants of a rather nasty wound. This particular gash dwarfed all of Jack's gunshot wounds –combined.

"What happened to you?" she said, gaping at the purple ribbon-like ridge cutting across the otherwise flawless skin of his leg. The raised edges of the wound looked much like the border of a lasagna noodle. It was rather grotesque, but her eye was oddly drawn to it.

"A cannonball," he replied matter-of-factly. "I tried to get out of the way, but it still managed to peel back a decent amount of flesh as it passed in front of me."

"Who were you fighting?"

He grinned at her.

"Who do you think."

"Pirates?"

"Yes."

"It's rather a shame that as a woman, I am not meant to experience the sorts of adventures you men get to go through every day."

"Perhaps you are not meant to experience them—but you've overcome that restriction, haven't you. You're sailing with bloody pirates, of all people."

"Yes, but I know that wherever I set foot onto land, I would be hanged for the life I've chosen."

"They wouldn't be hanging you because you are a woman with an adventurous life. They'd hang you because you are allied with the pirates."

"Ha, as if that's any different."

"Well, they'd hang me as well, if it makes you feel any better. My story is even more depressing than yours. I spend my entire life on the right side of the law, and yet I'd be strung up just as quickly as Jack Sparrow if I should be caught."

He looked down at the wound on his leg, the permanent scar he'd have from his time in the Royal Navy. He wasn't sure of what to do now; convince her to touch the scar? That could be tricky…. Idly he traced a finger along the ridges, wincing at the unsightliness of it. It wasn't often he was able to see this scar anymore, being as he remained constantly clad in the same clothing aboard the Black Pearl, unable to bathe or do anything else civilized as he had once done.

"So, what are you going to do now?" she blurted.

He looked up at her inquisitively. What does she mean by that, he mused. Knowing not what to say in response, he simply looked at her.

"Meaning, when we arrive in the Canary Islands, are you going to stay?"

She rather didn't like the idea of Beckett leaving the ship. If he would disembark, she'd be alone. Jack now had Joana to entertain, and so on. And she'd be having this baby to raise all by herself, on a pirate ship, no less. Even though these men were her allies, she didn't like the idea of an infant growing up in their company. Beckett still managed to retain some semblance of dignity, unlike most of these pirates.

He thought for a moment, then replied, breaking eye contact with her.

"I don't plan on staying," he said. "I need to redeem myself to the law-abiding world if I am to remain alive for any length of time."

She raised an eyebrow.

"And are you going to work your way back up the rankings again, if you should be redeemed?"

"Does that question really need to be asked."

"Ha, so in only a short while, you may be the very person ordering my execution," she said, sneering. "It seems everything went full-circle. Jack is not going to like the idea of that."

"—Which is why you can't tell him," Beckett replied quickly.

"If you're planning on killing us all in the near future, why shouldn't I tell, at least to preserve my own well-being?"

It was a good point she had made. If he was willing to go back to the other side, it only made sense for her to look out for the safety of herself and her allies. There had to be some sort of compromise, one that he had been planning on enacting whether or not she was made aware of it.

"Well, to put things on an even keel… I propose that no matter where I end up in the rankings, I would not allow for you to be executed," he told her.

"And why not?" she replied, affronted. This burst of anger from her surprised him a bit. Now I have to justify my merciful plans for her?

"Does that really matter," he said dryly.

"It's because I'm pregnant, isn't it? You'd feel guilty in killing my unborn child…. That is, until I have the baby."

"No. It's not because of that."

"Why, then!?"

He sighed deeply, rolling his eyes in utter exasperation.

"If you need to ask then you're not ready to know," he replied sternly. She sat there, deep in thought, eyes unfocused, in response to his comment. A couple of times her eyes wandered down to his thigh, other times to his bare chest. He didn't know what to say or do during this consideration.

"And you'd let the others on board hang?"

"Of course."

"They have spared you your life this entire time you've been aboard, and your immediate plan of action is to kill them? Maybe I should just off you right now and save us all the trouble of what is to come if you are indeed redeemed."

He couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. Ha, Elizabeth killing me. With what, her pillow? He supposed it was possible for her to suffocate him but that he'd probably be able to fight her off. His chuckling enraged her. Had she not proven herself to be a formidable adversary?

Suddenly, Elizabeth snatched the ignored pistol from where it lie atop the blankets, and pounced upon the barely-dressed Beckett in nothing but her nightgown, tackling him onto his back.

"Did you hear that?" Jack asked, a moderately loud squeak piercing the absolute silence of the ship.

"Aye, that I did," Barbossa replied.

"Who do you think is up?"

"Sounds to me like that came from Mrs. Turner's cabin," Barbossa said with a knowing sneer.

"Well, why would she be movin' about so violently in bed?"

"More'n likely that be Beckett there with her," Barbossa replied matter-of-factly.

Jack blanched but didn't acknowledge the dropping of his rummy stomach contents into the bottoms of his feet.

"Int'restin'. Just wot I was comin' by to ask you about," Jack replied as unaffected as possible, covering the discomfort he was now feeling acutely with a well-place slur in speech. "I heard from someone that Lizzie is pregnant wiv Beckett's child. Wot say you to that? Can you think of any basis for that sort of folly?"

"As a matter o' fact, Jack, there be good basis fer it. I once caught him an' her on her bed in her cabin, him shirtless, them holdin' hands. I also think there be some foul play betwixt 'em when she were punishin' 'im in the brig. Aye, I can believe what ye say."

Barbossa really wanted Beckett off the ship. Even though he knew Beckett feared him and would listen to him, there was still that element of blatant disloyalty there, that unnerving fact that Beckett was capable of shooting him in the back without batting an eye. Yes, the ship would be much safer without Beckett. O' course, if it truly be that Mrs. Turner is with Beckett's child, removin' the temptation is our best bet t' stayin' in good graces with the Dutchman.

Jack was fuming inside at the revelation. Why hadn't Barbossa mentioned that to me before? Well, all that mattered was that his fears were confirmed—and that Beckett's time on the Black Pearl was over.

"You know very well of our tie wiv th' Dutchman…" Jack began. Barbossa cut him off.

"'Course, Jack," Barbossa replied. "As soon as yer ready, I be raring t' jettison us o' some excess cargo."

After knocking Beckett flat onto his back, Elizabeth straddled his legs with her own, supporting her body with one arm, her other wrist upon his chest, aiming a pistol under his chin. Their heads were positioned at the foot of the bed, Beckett's legs still dangling off the side of the mattress.

But rather than look fearful, Beckett's expression was at ease, a little smirk playing across his lips.

"You think this is so funny, do you," she snarled, her face looming very close to his own.

His smirk remained, as he shifted his arms from his sides so that they were now in a surrender-position, palms up, on either side of his head. With a mischievous upturn of the corner of his lips, he regarded her intently.

"So," he said in a breathy almost-whisper, "you've got me where you want me. You could do anything to me right now, and I'd be helpless to resist."

He looked at her intently, immediately realizing that he could peer right down her nightgown at her bare breasts.

Beckett could feel himself getting worked up at being able to view Elizabeth from this most delightful angle. The fact that a pistol was pressed up against the underside of his chin was long forgotten. He swallowed rather loudly, face beginning to feel flushed. This is rather entertaining.

It was then that it registered to Elizabeth that Beckett was no longer making eye contact, his gaze having drifted slightly downwards.

"What are you—" she began to say, glancing down quickly at her nightgown. Oh my God; he's looking right down my—

Both of her hands were occupied, however. One of them was supporting her weight, the other holding the pistol. But this scandalous view had to be stopped as soon as possible.

She decided the pistol was more important to retain hold of without misfiring like Jack's had on the Azores, and so lowered her chest directly onto Beckett's bare one, putting her left arm across her collarbones to block any possible remaining view of her décolletage and whatever else he had previously been able to see.

"That's not very gentlemanly behavior; have you gone pirate?" she said, sneering at him as she did so, the pistol still tucked underneath his chin.

Immediately upon the motion of her nightgown-clad skin touching his own bare skin, she felt him shudder under her, as well as the feeling of something rather firm poking into her abdomen. Her eyes grew wide at the thought of what was going through his head at the moment. Fearfully, she looked at his face.

Beckett was giving her the most subtle of smirks.

"Mayhap you should teach me a lesson then," he murmured silkily.

She was annoyed at him for having seen whatever he had seen, but the way he had responded to her had quite the opposite affect. Rather, the way he responded made her want him, seeing such raw interest in his eyes, and such naughtiness in his tone. Oh my, he wanted her to teach him a lesson?! It was then that his hands began to subtly change position, moving downwards so that they were again at his sides. He then raised them up, touching Elizabeth on the back as she lay on top of him.

Upon the touch of Beckett's arms on her back, Elizabeth jolted her head up, the pistol remaining where it was. The contact sent rushes of blood into her face, into her stomach—strange pangs of longing.

"Wh-what do you think you are doing?" she squawked, voice cracking mid-sentence.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he replied, still staring up at the ceiling. "If you're going to shoot me, I'm not going to try to stop you."

"I don't trust you," she said. "And I won't trust you until you can look me in the eye and say that." She very much wanted to retain her stance above him rather than be lying against his warm chest, feeling the firm bulge pressing against her lower body. Mayhap I should sit up so that I'm straddling him—but oh, bother—that's probably just as bad as this…

Beckett's head very subtly raised, his chin brushing against the barrel of the pistol. He looked directly at her, his expression serious, hands still remaining on her back.

"I am not going to hurt you or try to prevent you from shooting me," he stated in a monotone.

"Then why are you touching—"

"Because if I am to die tonight, I'd prefer to die reasonably happy," he replied in a huffy tone. Elizabeth was floored by the statement, and the hand holding the pistol went slack, allowing for the pistol to fall onto the bed by Beckett's shoulder.

"So?" she muttered.

"So what?"

"You're no longer in immediate danger of death."

"As I said before, Elizabeth; I'm not going to try to prevent you from shooting me. Which also means that I'm not going to attempt to gain control of the pistol."

"No, what I meant is, you're not going to die now… so why are your hands still on my back?"

"Because you're letting me keep them there."

A/N: Thank you for reading along!

Preview for next chapter:

The creaks on the stairs were light and dainty and eased Cutler's mind of anyone else's approach.

"Elizabeth," he whispered sternly, approaching the ladder. "I thought I told you not to follow—"

The barrel of a pistol appeared from above, aimed right between his eyes. Beckett immediately stopped talking, shutting his mouth with no readable expression.