A/N: Longest chapter to date! Probably because its inspired by four amazing songs.

Dropkick Murphys - "Black Velvet Band", "Barroom Hero", "Spicy McHaggis Jig" along with Flogging Molly's - "Seven Deadly Sins" (All great Irish punk drinking songs!)

Thank you Nytd, once again, for beta-ing and giving me your input! You really sparked some interesting stuff here. ;)

Warning: This chapter is rated M for mature audiences - please do not read if you don't enjoy drinking and/or sexual situations.

Otherwise, enjoy! Review, review, review! I'm a sucker for your opinions!

Chapter 21 – Shall We Dance?

"Seven drunken pirates, we're the seven deadly sins!"
Flogging Molly

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The taverns in Low Country Tortuga were the social gathering places for pirates, where most of the discussion of buccaneer economy and drinking ensued. Drink was cheap and company expensive, even if the island was showered with booty. Most individual needs were met with considerable negotiation and perhaps, with forceful politics. Lodging and clean sheets would cost you about three shillings; dirty sheets on the other hand, only one shilling.

Now, the quality of drink at the Faithful Bride was the real question that was harbored in Isabella's mind, for it varied considerably from tavern to tavern depending on what time of day you would happen to be strolling in; the later in the evening, the more watered down grog was served. Barbossa accompanied her along with Pintel and Ragetti into a small, yet homey, tavern whose walls glimmered with the amber glow of lit candles and the sparks of haphazard pistol shots.

The noise was unbearable, so much so that she had to cover her ears when first entering the threshold of the taproom. She saw more of the pistols that Barbossa spoke of about the room, fired without conceivable notion of where they were aiming.

'Wasted steel, if you ask me. Those probably do more harm then good,' she thought, shifting her eyes to Barbossa's waist as he unconsciously brushed back his long, brown frockcoat to reveal his brigade of weaponry.

'How have I not noticed those menacing pieces of metal before?' she thought as she followed Barbossa through niches of drunken men and saucy barmaids to a long, gleaming countertop made of strong timber. Seemed like a smart choice for such an establishment. A substantial line of pirates crowded around the countertop, smashing their fists upon the strong timber in jest and sometimes in anger. Mugs were thrown and threats were fired, drinks were spilt and weapons drawn. The barkeep's eyes were on them. A man known for splitting up the unruliest of brawls and rumored to have even started a few of his own, he was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

The bar keeper, of course, made his own beer, wine, cider and mead while holding his own reputation on the line. He was a striking, middle aged Irish man, who truly believed in the quality of his product. He certainly knew that there was some difference in taste between the pasteurized and unpasteurized beers and that the customer would certainly settle for the former. Compared to lager beer even pasteurized English beer has a distinctively different taste, more heady and yeasty. He had every type of liquor imaginable, displayed on a large, multilevel shelf behind him with candles placed near the bottom of each bottle to display the name and amount remaining.

The barkeep scanned the counter, looking for new faces and old, knowing that he couldn't well give a knowing pirate watered down rum when he's sober. As all good business men did, he knew that apples and grain were not easily procured and had to be shipped in from New England in the Americas, costing him more than a shiny penny, but, most of all, honey was the real problem. Mead or "honey wine" had great appeal to some of the Tortugain patrons and the lack of it could, in fact, start the rowdiest of all bar fights. So, he made sure he had other alternatives.

"Open a tab?" the barkeep inquired, his accent was thick with softened vowels, hardened consonants, and a melodic tone of voice, almost musical to their ears. He cleaned off several brown mugs for their order with a wet rag and quickly wiped his hands on his apron and stepped forward to greet his new customers.

Barbossa lifted his chin. "Aye, I'll be havin' yer finest Vinho Verdi," he declared.

'Nice choice,' the barkeep thought, nodding as Barbossa tipped his hat to him in thanks.

The barkeep then shifted his gaze toward Pintel and Ragetti, who lifted their arms up in unison, nodding. "Rum fo' us, chum."

He nodded again. 'Predictable,' he thought, almost sighing; now looking in the direction of Isabella. "And, what'll ya be havin', lad?" he asked, leaning up against the bar, awaiting, perhaps, a similar response.

"My good man, do you have any idea how to make Flip?" she inquired softly, hoping that her request was not too inane.

He smiled; no one had asked him if he made Flip since his visit to New England to trade for apples and honey. "Aye, I thin' I know a thin' or two," he smiled, taking in a much needed breath of fresh air to a man passionate about his product.

He quickly went about his duties, pouring wine for Barbossa in a fine polished wine glass while setting up two mugs for rum. He handed the three men their drinks and went about performing the tasks to make Flip.

Flip was usually made in a great pewter mug filled two-thirds full of strong beer; sweetened with fine sugar and molasses that he had imported from the West Indies, or dried pumpkin, according to individual taste or capabilities. The mixture was then flavored with "a dash" of New England rum. Stirred into this mixture was a red-hot loggerhead, made of iron and shaped like a poker, and the seething iron made the liquor foam and bubble and mantle high, and gave it the burnt, bitter taste Isabella so dearly loved.

He blew the smoke from the very top of the liquid once finished and placed it upon the countertop in front of Isabella. "Le' me know wha'cha thin'?"

She lifted the mug to her mouth, feeling the heat radiating off the surface with invisible wavelike motions dancing upon her chapped lips. She cautiously sipped the liquid, licking her top lip to savor each drop as if it were her last.

She moaned with delight. "Now, this is good," she affirmed, lifting her mug to the barkeep. "To you, my new friend. What is your name?" she inquired, smiling.

Ragetti looked down at his simple cup of rum, feeling slightly dissatisfied with his selection for the first time ever.

"Ma name?" he asked, smiling. "Wha's it worth to ya, lad?"

She shrugged, breathing in the savory liquid. "Nothing at all to me, but it could be worth something to you if I know the name of the man I would recommend to my comrades to for a good drink," she persuaded, still holding up her mug.

A group of arrogant pirates began to brawl just a few chairs away from Pintel. One of the large, portly men rapped the bar with his knuckles in frustration, spilling a number of mugs full of finely prepared spirits upon the counter.

"Haigh! This wont do!" The barkeep sighed as he watched the liquid spread down the table until it reached the area were Isabella was sitting. He picking up a bundle of rags and threw them upon the counter as a barricade for the liquid, watching as the pirates forcefully took their differences to the other side of the tavern.

'Bloody oafs…' he thought, as he gathered more rags to clean.

"Are ya from th' Americas?" the barkeep asked, narrowing his brow as he cleaned the area where the assembly of lofty pirates spilt their drinks.

"From the south," she replied vaguely, rising from her stool to assist the man in his cleaning. "Don't worry; I'm fairly a skilled in swabbing. I clean decks almost everyday," she laughed, attempting to reassure the man while trying to keep her voice as masculine as possible.

"Padraic," he said, finally. "Ma name's Padraic. Thanks."

She nodded, lifting her mug up again to toast to him, taking a long swig.

"Sláinte," Padraic toasted to the young lad's health. "An' your name, frien'?"

"Henry," she answered between gulps.

"Aye, Henry. Do ya kno' anyone from New Englan'?" he asked after a moment.

"I've met a few men from thereabouts," she answered, thinking of Colin as she watched him finish his cleaning.

"Thanks again, lad. Enjoy," he asserted hastily, darting off toward the end of the bar to greet several more new customers.

Isabella looked over her shoulder to Ragetti and smiled, holding up her mug. "You lot need to branch out a bit," she giggled, noticing his dissatisfied face, looking over find Padraic. "Looks like we'll be needing two more … and you, Hector?"

"Nay, lass," he stated softly, holding up his bottle. "I think I'm doin' jus' fine," he said smiling as he rose from his chair.

"Where are you going?" she inquired as Barbossa turned to leave.

"I'll be around, jus' lookin' fer an ol' friend that's rumored ta be in town … take this," he stated coolly, retrieving his pistol from his side, cocking it before handing it to her with ease, "fer yer protection, in case somethin' were to happen ta ye."

"But, I don't even know how to use this thing!" she said, pointing the pistol up toward the ceiling, pulling the trigger clumsily with her index finger, feeling the barrel explode in her hand with fiery passion. She screamed, shutting her eyes tightly for a moment, until the sound had faded from her ears. She finally opened them to the sound of cackling laughter; the world around her seemed to have not even flinched at the outburst.

She looked in front of her to find a hysterical Barbossa. "Bloody hell, Hector! That's not funny!" she yelled, putting a finger in her ear to shake off the explosion.

But, he could not stop his laughter and before she knew it, Pintel and Ragetti had joined in suit. Pintel exerted a series of spontaneous, unarticulated sounds accompanied by a smack to his thigh and a long hoggish snort.

Ragetti smacked his round, pot belly. "Alright, alright! Shush now, ya sound like a butchered hog!"

"Hey! I've got the pistol here, remember?" she said, aiming the pistol between all three of her potential targets.

"Didn't mean no harm, Miss—Henry—I mean…" Ragetti faltered.

"Shut it!" Pintel growled, smacking the back of Ragetti's head. "Before you blow our cover, ya loudmouth ingrate!"

"'Sides, ye have to reload ta do any damage, Henry," Barbossa stated knowingly, finishing his glass of wine before signaling over to Padraic to provide him with a bottle for further tasting. He reloaded the gun with careful, nimble fingers, instructing Isabella on each individual piece of its anatomy even if she wouldn't remember it the very next day.

The taproom became increasingly louder as the evening rolled on. Barbossa came and went, almost pacing between the bar and the small dance floor where several musicians played catastrophically drunken fiddle music. Isabella watched Barbossa grow increasingly impatient with each step and after a little while of walking back and forth, Barbossa finally came to his senses, stepping out of the tavern for a breath of fresh air.

Isabella's Flip quickly became a quiet, sneaky murderer of energy, happiness and brain function.

In the distance, a man adorned with a long crimson frock coat seemed to partition the inebriated crowd; his swagger was slow and confident. So much so that it caught the eyes of meddlesome Pintel. The echo of his footsteps danced across the pale amber walls of the tavern, each step causing his hips to carelessly swing the sash that was elegantly tied around his waist. His hair was carefully styled in long, black dreadlocks; trickling with beads and small silver crosses, and restrained by a dark, green bandana. His large bicorne could be seen from afar, showcasing white pheasant feathers as a symbol of status, simply emanating the word 'Captain.'

Pintel shook Ragetti's shoulder, silently pointing to the man that took a seat beside Isabella, flipping his coat out from under himself before he sat on barstool. He laced his fingers together and leaned his elbows on top of the counter, nodding a silent request to Padraic and watched as the barkeep scramble, searching for utter perfection.

He eagerly shifted through an assortment of decoratively crafted bottles and hand blown glasses, finally emerging to place a reservoir glass filled with a naturally colored verte beside to a beautifully engraved absinthe spoon.

Isabella looked over her shoulder at Ragetti, who seemed to be mesmerized by the man beside her. She turned her head in his direction, finding a warm familiarity to his features and charm emanating from his persona.

"Oi," called Ragetti, nudging her arm eagerly.

"Aye?"

"I found Jack!" He smiled. 'Parently, someone else found 'im s'well," he said chuckling as he placed a hand over his mouth before he could let out any more gossip. He pointed his finger in the direction of a round table nestled within a darker corner in the tavern. A dark, long haired figure sat comfortably in a chair, trinkets sparkling with brief essences of candlelight. A rather overly decorated woman sat casually upon his lap, slipping him small heartless kisses and sensual caresses. Her cheeks were powdered with an excessive amount of blush and her hair curled to dainty perfection.

Teague casually cleared his throat, snapping Isabella back to reality.

She turned her attention to him again, observing him for a moment out of sheer curiosity. "You look familiar, sailor," she announced, catching Teague's attention as she placed an inquisitive finger on her bottom lip. "Have we met before?"

"That's Cap'n Teague, Miss," Ragetti whispered in her ear. "Keeper of the--"

"Nay, lad, I'm afraid ya haven't met the likes of me before," Teague answered honestly, interrupting Ragetti as he lifted the glass to his lips to take a shot of his green liquid. "Haven't sailed these waters in ages," he explained nostalgically, slowly licking his lips.

She nodded, looking down at her drink for a moment, running her finger tips along the edges of the decorative the pewter mug, savoring the cool sensations it brought to her sanity through her fingertips. She watched Jack steadily with her peripherals, making out the image of Jack's fingers twirling the bloody wench's curly red locks.

She paused. 'The bloody wench?' she thought incredulously, suddenly feeling that spark of animosity in her heart turn to confusion. 'He's a grown man; he can make his own decisions. It's not my place to tell him who he can sleep with or not.'

She bit her cheek enviously. 'But, why not me? Am I really that repulsive?' she thought, peering through her short, brittle locks, down to her body. Her small breasts, dirty palms, broken finger nails and slightly "voluptuous" waist line stuck out to her the most as she critically analyzed every crevice of her existence.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat, she leaned her elbows against the bar for leverage as she began to feel a bit lightheaded from the drink. "So, is that what men like?" she thought aloud, rolling her wrists in Jack's direction as she casually took another drink from her mug. She gazed over at Jack, watching his hands travel their course upon the strumpet's seemingly thin waist. "Corsets, face paint and overall insecurity in one's true self?" she furthered, clarifying her previous statement.

Teague observed the lad for a moment, unsure of where he was directing his question. He shifted his eyes between his son and the rather effeminate sailor sitting beside him.

"I'll have what he's having, just stronger," Isabella commanded to Padraic, pointing to Teague's empty glass. "And, can we do something about this chaos that they're playing?" she asked, placing her palms tightly on her ears. "I swear my ears might leave any second now."

"And th' rest of ya?"

"I'll still be here and in much better spirits from not having to listen to that anymore."

"Then let 'em go," he joked, filling her order as quickly as he could; running off the end of the bar once more to take the orders of a few more blokes that sauntered in. She picked up the glass with two fingers, bringing it to her lips before quickly shooting the green liquid down her throat, paying no mind to the burning sensation that ignited deep within her, crawling down to the very pit of her stomach. She looked over at Ragetti, grabbing his mug from his hand.

"Sorry, mate. But, my throat's burning!" she muttered, bringing the mug to her lips, letting a solid stream of liquid cascaded down her cheeks, washing away the kohl-like impurity on her face.

Teague's eyes were upon her, yet she had not noticed his piercing gaze harden in judgment as the liquid continued to pour down the side of her mouth.

"You're one to talk about being false?" Teague questioned, watching as the lad's mustache and parts of his beard began to disappear before his eyes. The music had stopped and her charade had come to a disastrous halt.

"'Pears as though, lass, that you've been tryin' so hard to be everyone else but yourself," he observed, lifting a hand to her face, rubbing away some of the smudged kohl with his coarse thumb.

"Oh," she muttered, staring into Teague's eyes for a moment as he continued to burn a hole through her disguise. He was absolutely daunting with a distinct aroma of mystery that sung like poetry – almost deadly to those without proper defense.

She slid back her chair, slowly rising to her feet, taking a small step back as she continued to keep eye contact with Teague. She cleared her throat. "Well, my good man, I must bid you ado. If you ever need your decks swabbed – er, not in that fashion … you may call upon me," she stammered, before dashing away into the rambunctious crowd that formed on the dance floor, thinking that she could probably lose the old pirate amidst the commotion.

A small man emerged from a cloud of second-hand gun powder, climbing atop a wobbly old table, holding a rather interesting instrument. It was one that Isabella recognized immediately, finding herself lost in her thoughts, tossing Teague to the back of her mind as the man called for everyone's attention.

It was an intricately decorated bagpipe, equipped with three large pipes called drones. The small man brought the blowpipe to his lips, sliding his fingers on the chanter pipe, beginning to play steady and constant tune. The room was filled with beautiful chirping grace notes and excellent timing. The tune became more and more familiar to Isabella as his song progressed, for it was an up tempo jig known as the Donella Beanton.

"Scottish scoundrels!" Padraic yelled in jest from behind the bar, bobbing his head to the beat of the Scottish drum.

"Don't ruin the moment, Padraic! We've finally got some decent music going!" she yelled, waving delightfully in his direction.

Memories began flowing through her mind and for the first time, they weren't awful or discouraging. She smiled, remembering a man in Scotland that she had met many, many years ago who played bagpipes just as beautifully. The memory of him caused her to begin dancing by herself, feeling the beat of the music flowing through her body, taking control of her hips and arms. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the involuntary movement.

She felt hot breath on her neck and a pair of hands on her shoulders. He turned her delicately with his finger tips.

"Shall we dance, lass?" Teague inquired, gently taking her hands as he moved a great step forward with his left foot.

She took a large step back in suit. "A proper dance?" she shot back, raising her brow as she felt his fingers intertwine with hers.

"Proper enough for a pirate, if you're willin' to believe in such things," he retorted, taking a small step forward with his right foot to make a quarter turn to his left.

She took a small step back with her left foot to make a quarter turn to her left. "I've had my fair share in dealings with pirates," she added, feeling Teague tighten his grip on her hands. "You lot aren't so terrifying."

"Is that so?" he inquired, smiling as he brought his left foot towards his right. "You seem too young to be dealin' with pirates, let alone swabbin' decks for 'em."

"I'm older than you might think, sailor," she stated confidently, looking deeply into his eyes. "And if I'm not mistaken, you took the liberty of asking me to dance."

She chucked softly at her observation. "You're certainly not as old as me. I've watched the world burn and rise up from its ashes more times than I'd like to admit. All while you were still suckling your mum's teat," he stated in a low, harsh whisper.

"Such vulgarity, Captain Teague, I wasn't expecting that coming from a man of class and distinction such as yourself," she challenged, raising her brow as she twirled her beneath his arm once more. "And for your information, I certainly know how to act my age in some respects."

"Prove me wrong, then, lass," he cooed, smirking seductively.

"My apologies, Captain, but a proper lady does not discuss such things," she teased, as he took a step forward to begin their waltz again.

"Perhaps, another drink? To loosen the tongue and numb the senses," he offered, bringing her closer to him.

She rolled his eyes playfully, continuing to enjoy her dance with the charming pirate.

"So, who are you, really?" he asked suddenly, as he raised his left arm to push Isabella under and across the front of him.

"Why do you wish to know?" she asked, continuing to turn beneath Teague's arm as he took another step forward.

"Well, to put it plain an' simple to ya, s'not easy for a father to watch a cross dressing lady chase after his only son," he accused, lowering his left arm and placing his right hand on Isabella's back.

It hit her. She finally realized why he seemed so familiar. "Chasing your son? Hardly," she sneered, looking over at the corner to find Jack, yet he was no where in sight. She darted her eyes to Ragetti, who knew exactly what she was searching for, he shrugged his shoulders to her in the distance. She licked her hand, forcefully wiping away the remainder of the kohl from her face in utter frustration.

"Damnit, are you happy now?" she cried, pulling her hands away from Teague's firm grasp as she merged with the crowd, once again. She wanted nothing more to be away from them all.

She snaked her way through a maze of dancing pirates, only to be pushed and pulled aside by various sources, including being hit in the face with the breasts of several large, promiscuous women. The bellows of inebriated men deafened her ears as she watched her vision slowly turned upside down, moving in slow tremors while blinding her with dazzling, bright lights. She began to panic as the air grew dense from heat and body odor, feeling her cheeks tingle as if tiny, microscopic worms were multiplying rapidly on her face. Short of breath, she felt a pair of hands upon her, propelling her toward the door. She felt thankful inside, someone had finally understood her struggle, for she no longer wanted to dance, to drink or be merry with unknown strangers…

No, what she desired most was to embrace the freshness of the evening breeze as she had done almost every night in Florida. She had once embraced the wind as if she were embracing a passionate lover, yet never feeling the same loving gesture in return. Inhaling with deep longing within her heart, she realized what she's wanted all along: to be embraced in the arms of the man she'd denied herself from for too long.

The former welcomed her with open arms and unbiased discernment while caressing her gently with light currents and kissing her softly with the pureness of clarity. But, would the latter be just as accepting?

She led him up the tavern stairs to a series of rooms directly above the taproom, lighting the way with a small candelabra in hand. Their fabricated courtship had ended and now it was time to discuss the details behind closed doors. She pulled him forcefully toward a small room at the end of the dimly lit hallway, she wouldn't let her night of hard work and persuasions go to waste. Opening the door cautiously, she slid the candelabra through the doorway, making sure that the room was not already occupied by one of her associates. The candlelight revealed a humble abode, four simple walls, a bed, bed table, desk and open window.

The lavish, red bedspread was for show, ultimately put on for tidiness or display rather than warmth and comfort - embroidered with every sort of refinery that a weaving seamstress could possibly produce in her lifetime. Scarlett could not stop talking about the damn thing.

"The quilt's in both appliqué with spots of patchwork that was made in the Americas," she chattered on, looking down at her nails as she climb atop the bed, sitting herself comfortably in front of Jack so he could begin the daunting task of untying the back of her corset. Normally, he would have just sliced the corset open with his knife but, he did not wish to buy the insatiable woman a new dress in the morn.

He had taken the liberty of removing his frockcoat, waist coat and undershirt along with several other trinkets that hung from his waist. His time was rationed just like all of her other callers, so it was best to get down to business as quickly as possible. His experiences with her were always enjoyable, to say the least, but rather pre-scripted, lacking the true intimacy of a lover would passionately possess.

He began to notice how many times he'd untied those very same laces. 'A universal combination of an unguarded safe,' he thought. But, then again, he was in no position to complain whether the safe were unlocked or not; it was in his possession at the moment.

She felt the last of her laces being drawn, suddenly feeling the pit of her stomach begin to quiver from the thought of another night of forced affection. She composed herself, taking in a deep breath as she reminded herself that it was part of her profession and that Jack was ultimately a gentleman. If anything, she'd rather be in the safety of his arms than those of any other drunken jackass on this island. She let him remove her corset and stays, leaving her with a slightly soiled linen chemise. Turned to him, she pushed him down upon her bed.

He felt her warmth upon his hardened manhood as she straddled his stomach, removing her chemise as she swayed her hips slowly, her nude form partly masked by shadows. She traced her fingers over his lean upper body, taking the time to caress every scar and tattoo with great care while supplely licking the two bullet wounds on his chest.

He let his hands wander, tracing her thighs with the very tips of his fingers, letting them journey across the plain of her flat stomach and tickle her visible rib cage. He grasped her slender waist, slowly massaging her pale skin with his palms, letting the coldness of his rings cause bumps of hardened gooseflesh. He playfully traced lines between each one of her blemishes, letting them lead him up to her small, slightly hanging breasts – blaming them for his sinful actions, if need be.

"Oh, Jack," she giggled, pushing his hands up to grab her breasts – he was taking too long. She fondled his beard seductively, pushing his arms down firmly to the bed. "Wha' can I do ya for this fine evening, Mr. Sparrow?"

He sighed softly. "Whatever I can get for the contents of that little black pouch over yonder." He nodded his head over in to the object on her bed table, where he had tossed his effects.

She reached over to it, extending her body along with her arms to reach it as Jack eagerly ogled her figure.

He noticed a large, green bruise on her back before she returned with the pouch. "Where'd you get that?" He recoiled, curling his lip.

"Oh," she sighed, "it's nothin' just an accident the other day with one of tha girls… nothing to worry about really, Jack. You know 'ow they all can get." She attempted to smile to reassure him, but Jack could see right through her rehearsal.

Her eyes glimmered with insincerity. He had seen them before - the bruises - they seemed to multiply on her skin, breeding larger and more substantial each evening. No matter how many times she mustered a smile for his sake, he knew she didn't enjoy it, nor wished to enjoy it with the likes of him. After all the years of sleeping with her, he could at least detect that. Her life of prostitution had taken its toll on her, causing her to be emotionally unstable at times, so much so that at one point, Jack wanted nothing more than to take her away from the sinful little harbor town that continually used and abused her. But, he was no better by calling onto her services each time he made port. Contributing to her everlasting downward spiral and the fact that her body had become the Tortuga's unholy temple.

"Jack, are ya tryin' to swindle me again?" Scarlett accused angrily, holding the small pouch in her palm while shifting through it with the tips of her fingers.

He smiled. "Darling, what ever could you be talking about?"

"This is fake money! Ya already owe me fo' the last time you were 'ere!"

"Fake money? No, no, love, you're obviously mistaken…"

"Bloody right I'm mistaken – for trustin' you!" she yelled, swinging back her arm and propelling it forward to smack him hard on his cheek. The force of her slap turned his head violently, causing him to feel the room spin for a moment as he felt her weight lift from his stomach. He cupped his cheek and shook off the pain, but was too late. Scarlett had already begun dressing herself, slipping on the remainder of her layers in a matter of seconds. She held her corset in hand as she irritably made her way to the door.

"Hmph!" she muttered, slamming the door behind her as she left.

He heard her light footsteps scamper down the hall, the sound of a door opening to another room and a corresponding slam after she entered.

"I pilfered a bag of utterly useless scrap metal," he growled, rising from the uncomfortable bed to walk toward the window, in need of a breath of fresh air.

"Well, aren't we successful at not doing anything right at all?" a voice spoke sarcastically.

"We're probably better off this way, aye, Jackie?"

"Aye, always better off alone. At least I can trust meself," Jack confirmed.

"Good lad! At least you've got us to keep you company!"

He nodded in half-hearted agreement, lifting his trousers a bit to sit comfortably below his waistline. His hands grasped the edges of the windowsill as he leaned his weight forward to peer out at the glittering canvas above him for just a moment, savoring its intangible beauty.

A loud rumble seemed to have been forming below him. The roars appeared to be originating from a group of men exiting the threshold of the tavern, holding in their arms the limp body of an inebriated man. He watched as the man was thrown out onto the ground outside the tavern's doorstep – a rather common occurrence at this time of night.

The man stirred, realigning his tricorne hat as he pushed himself up from the ground.

'Hold on a second…' he thought, leaning over a bit to take a closer look at the man's hat.

The man stumbled, planting his feet firmly while holding his arms up for balance before scanning his surroundings.

She looked about, realizing she was now in the middle of the road, setting her gaze upon a slight glimmer of light that reflected upon the dirt in front of her. She followed its path steadily with her gaze, discovering that light's origin came from one of the windows directly above her.

She squinted at the figure encased within the frame. "Jack?" she called out, stumbling forward a few steps as she continued to decipher his anatomy. "Are you naked? Are we all getting naked now?" she went on, continuing to scan Jack's lean and muscular upper body.

"Bella? You're utterly besotted, aren't you?"

"Absolutely not," she asserted, sticking out her chest in the attempt to compose herself. "What gave you that impression?"

"Don't forget to breathe, darling," he suggested.

She let out a long breath and giggled a bit, averting her eyes to the ground before beginning to stumbling off again. She did not want to waste his time if he were, in fact, with company.

"Oi! Where are you going?"

"That way …" she pointed, "to the beach, I think."

Jack scanned the direction in which Isabella pointed out to him. It was too late in the night to see distinctly through the dark, dripping passageway between several old Tortugain buildings. It surely led to white sandy shores, but she wouldn't make it in her condition nor would he put it pass any other drunken fool to discover her with intensions that were not so admirable.

"Alone?" he pried, sucking his teeth.

"Why not? I can handle myself," she stated proudly, waving off his cautious remark as she began to walk away, slightly wobbling to her right.

He noticed that the kohl mask he had drawn on for her had faded her identity now visible to all. "I see that Henry is no longer with us," Jack continued, attempting to keep her from running off.

His efforts would go without avail; she continued to walk, yelling back to him. "Aye, he must have jumped ship to join another crew. He probably doesn't like swabbing decks all day under the blistering sun!" she played along, attempting to regain her balance by placing her right hand on her hat, and holding out the other out beside her.

"S'not safe to travel by your lonesome at night!" he exclaimed, his words not heeded or considered. "And I let you take the helm!"

"Damnit woman – wait!" Jack yelled, anticipating for her to turn around at his request. After a few moments, she disappeared within the enigmatic shadows cast by the two brick buildings. Jack jolted away from the small window, running about the room to find his shirt and boots. He quickly dressed, knotting his striped-red sash around his waist, stowing his pistol as he tossed his faded blue waistcoat on top of his torn white undershirt. He hastily ran out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him as he quickly ran down the rickety narrow steps to the merrily glowing taproom.

"Hold on! Coming through! My apologies, gents, but would you kindly shove off!" Jack exasperated, holding his arms out in front of him to move those who lay in his path. He pushed several old sailors out of the way before slamming into the door stop, running out through the threshold into the darkness of night.

"Wha' was tha'?" Padraic inquired, slightly confused.

"Now there be a sight ta behold," Barbossa stated, smiling with a glass of wine to his lips.

"I've never seen that before. Aint it supposed to be the other way around?" Pintel furthered, looking over at Ragetti.

"Aye, usually they're the ones chasing after him?" Ragetti concurred, wiggling his fingers to illustrate his point.

"Destiny has a funny way of turning us in different directions. Of'entimes, a person meets face-to-face with his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it altogether," Teague explained, leaning up against the bar with his elbows, a small smirk curling his lips. Perhaps, his son had finally met his match.

It had been years since she remembered the good things. The sense of exhilaration, of accomplishment in having those who she cared for most in life look up to her for guidance and affection. To have a man whisk her heart away in the matter of minutes to a state of mind she had not entered in centuries. The good sense of normalcy and love weakened the drive for fear and regret. Yet, it was a wonderful but lonely feeling being entirely submerged in the sea.

She emerged from the sea and from her adversaries, as a woman of substance, fragmented but not broken. The sea calmed her and loathed her in the same instance; the elements could not help but be against her.

She planted her feet steadily upon the sand below the current, removing her heavily saturated shirt to wash its soiled stitching.

"Came out quite nicely, if you ask me," a voice stated in the distance. The man clasped his hands behind his back as he kicked the sand gently with the toe of his boot.

Startled, she turned slightly, covering her breasts with one arm as she looking over her shoulder to the figure in the distance. "Jack?" she called out, squinting as she wrung out her shirt, slipping it back on her dripping body. "What are you doing here? Do think I'm going to run away?"

"I don't think I've given you a viable enough reason to run from me …" he attempted to argue.

"Yet," she finished, sloshing her feet through the cold water, feeling the sand trickle between her toes with the shifting current.

She sat down beside him on the sand, tossing back her hair. "And your company for this evening?" she inquired casually, running her hands through her wet hair, trying to comb through the knots with her fingers.

"Problems arose," Jack answered vaguely, noticing that she had looked down toward his waistline. "Not in that respect! That's working just fine," he assured her, pointing his nose in the air.

"Just like your compass?" she joked, chuckling softly with a hand in front of her lips.

"That … is an entirely different matter, unrelated to the subject at hand, missy. And I meant financially, by the way."

"Besides, if she said one more word about those damn bed linens, I would have shot meself with me own bloody pistol," he furthered after seeing Isabella's expression dishearten.

They grew quiet for a moment, finding themselves at the mercy of the dark canvas above and the sound of the gentle waves crashing against the shore. She was mesmerized by a distant moon, glimmering like a brilliant symphony in a sky that she would have only seen in her wildest of dreams. Driftwood lightly grazed her toes, bringing her eyes down to the seaweed wrapped around her ankle, and she could feel the salt weighing down her hair from the ocean spray.

"Tis beautiful here," she observed plainly, leaning back onto her elbows, feeling them sink slowly into the fine crystals of sand beneath her.

"Really, darling, beauty is a form of genius, perhaps even superior to genius in most circumstances, as it needs no extensive thought or rationalization - quite incomprehensible and rather peculiar in form. In this world, beauty finds itself to be one of the few conceptualizations that we cannot grasp in the palms of our hands nor can we destroy it, no matter how hard you try. Not even with the blades of countless cutlasses or thousands of merciless bullets of iron."

She was floored.

"Can't you see it? Or, is it not something easily detected or deciphered? Is brightness of sunlight or the cool breeze of early spring something we take for granted? Even the reflection of moon in dark oceans of obscurity … your moon," he purred, taking her hand in his, running his coarse fingertips along the scarred edges of her first tattoo, letting the thin piece of cloth wrapped around his wrist flow freely upon her skin.

"You're absolutely brilliant," she whispered breathlessly, feeling her pulse race. Her wet hair dripped diminutive drops of cool water onto his hands; causing him to tuck a few loose strands behind her ear.

"As brilliant as a sea urchin can get," he replied; his statement filled with a bit more insecurity than she might have expected.

"Nay, more like a poet; an artist of beautifully articulated words and imagery…" she continued on, leaning into his words.

"More like a con-artist," he argued coolly, in a tone that reminded her that he was a pirate captain and not an overly sentimental eunuch.

"You're a poet, Jack," she confirmed, smiling. "Can't deny yourself of everything ... even compliments."

"Don't feed me ego, love, you'll end up regretting it in the long run." His advice was nestled warmly within a whisper.

With that, they spent the next few moments in silence once again; minds emerged in a countless sea of thoughts while their hearts suffocated within the depths of feelings unknown.

"Oh, my phoenix," she began softly. "I don't think he finished. Would you mind taking a look at it for me?"

His softened expression grew slightly perplexed. "Unfinished, you say?"

"Aye. Would you mind?"

He shook his head, whistling while he motioned for her to turn around.

She spun around toward the light of the moon, lifting the hem of her shirt to her shoulders, revealing the fierce, red creature on her back. It vividly sprang forth from a pyre. It embalmed the ashes of its predecessor in an egg of myrrh and now was flying to its new birthed freedom. Within the beautiful depiction was a mark of uncharacteristic error, an unfinished wing of feathers whose outline faded rapidly with each cascading droplet of sea water. The wing was in need of salvaging or the bird could not properly fly out to its destiny. He gently wiped away the stray drops, leaning in closer to decipher the faded black outline, stretching her skin between his fingers.

"That's odd …" he said finally, after some careful observation of the fragmented artwork. "First time the old drudge left his work unfinished. Did he run out of ink?" he offered, trying to piece together what might have happened.

His breath tickled the surface of her skin and his warmth delighted her. She didn't want him to know the truth of what really happened; she always knew exactly what to say to ruin the moment. John Thomas' death was so quick, so easy and so thoughtless. He was simply disposable, another soul tossed into the heavens without second glance.

Lying to Jack certainly seemed foreign at such an intimate moment. She shook her head. "It's really hard to finish something when you're not breathing," she stated amidst a cloud of nervous laughter.

He narrowed his brow. "Come again?"

"John Thomas is dead, Jack."

"Oh," he paused, looking up from the tattoo, leaving his hands where they lay. "You killed him?"

"No, Barbossa shot him with this," she sighed, tossing the pistol down upon the sand beside them. "I don't want it anymore. It's a heartless machine, driven on impulse of purpose rather than with conscience of the value of human life."

"What happened?" he inquired cautiously. "Did he harm you?"

"He called me a devil, pulled out his pistol and offered to save my soul from damnation," she recited awkwardly, crossing her arms tightly over her stomach, feeling a bit nauseous. "Thought he was doing me a favor, but Barbossa thought it wasn't so much of a favor after all."

Jack thought for a moment, licking his lips. "Good man. Glad his bloody aim didn't haul out with his age just yet," he stated, chuckling as he picking up the pistol, weighing it in his palms.

"The devil shows no sympathy and in turn, neither should you. The old bugger certainly deserved it any way you slice it…" he concluded, running his fingers along the barrel.

"Jack! That's not the point…"

"Did you at least take the pouch back?"

She glared at him sternly, crossing her arms.

"Don't look at me like that; those bloody things are nearly impossible to find! It took me months to catch them … Look! They bit me!" he exclaimed, holding up his hands.

"Well, if you want it back so badly just get the pouch back from Hector," she offered.

"Hector probably already squandered it off on various items of a dubious nature," he argued, looking down once more at the faded, unfinished outline. He shifted his gaze over to the pistol, realizing that an interesting trade could be made in efforts to retrieve his stolen merchandise. 'And if he didn't, I'm sure he'd be willing to trade it for something of greater value.'

"Damn shame though, isn't it?" he sighed.

"Wait," she announced, shifted over to her side, fiddling through the contents of her pant pocket, finally pulling out a small, shiny blade. "Can you finish it for me?" she asked sweetly, searching his eyes for an answer.

"I'm not quite sure if that's an entirely good idea …"

"You just have to trace the outline, s'all I'm asking for."

'I can't,' he thought, falsely taking the blade in his hand as if he was going to actually help her in such a way. 'I don't have it in me heart to harm you.' He cleared his throat, pulling his legs in to rise up to his feet, dusting away the granules of sand that clung to his skin and clothing, lending a hand out for Isabella to take. "Come on, lets head back to the ship … I'll see what I can do once we arrive."

She took his hand, letting him propel her upwards to her feet as she quickly grabbed her boots in the process, stumbling forward into his arms once she had reached an upright position.

"Easy now, wouldn't want to embark on an endeavor you're not entirely prepared for," he purred confidently.

"You're utterly egotistical, you know," she countered, unwavering from her position in his arms.

"Trifles, I'll only give praise where praise is due, that's a promise. Besides I told you not to feed me ego, you just don't like listening to me."

"A promise?" she questioned, wondering if believing a promise from a man who did not always entirely keep his promises would actually disappoint her in the end, rather than have her feel any security at all.

He nodded, smiling brilliantly. "Shall we?" he invited, offering his arm like a true gentleman. She took it, grasping his shirt with her fingers as she walked by his side, boots in hand and feet slowly sinking into the sand beneath her.