Warnings: some mild cursin'

Several hours later, Elizabeth woke to the sounds of various thumpings about on deck indicative of the crew being awake. From the thin sliver of light coming from under the door, she could make out the sleeping figure next to her. Beckett hadn't changed position. His filthy wig still remained on his head, the tail of it lying on the pillow. His arms were down at his sides, and face presumably turned the other way. The food was still untouched, and his blankets looked very much the same.

Has he still not regained consciousness? she mused. Well, while's he still senseless, I should probably tend to his wounds. I'll do so before I need to unlock the door and go on deck.

She carefully leaned over the side of the bed, picking up the medical supplies: a few poultices, a flask of rum, a couple of cotton swabs, and a bottle of turpentine. After she had them assembled on the table by her bedside, she pulled the covers off of Beckett and watched intently for signs of consciousness. Nothing at all happened, not even a sigh or slightly louder intake of breath from him. And no sign of movement whatsoever.

Beckett had heard Elizabeth stir, but did not wish to move in turn. The longer he stayed asleep, the longer he'd get to stay in bed. I'll be damned if I'm to return to the brig again, he mused, keeping his eyes shut and body absolutely still. What a miserable stinking hole that was.

After ensuring that the bedclothes were pulled amply back, she leaned towards his lower body, hooking on the waistband of his breeches with her fingers and pulling ever so carefully down. After his backside became visible, she steadily pulled the remainder of the way so that all the wounds were visible, then picked up the bottle of rum and uncorked it.

Suddenly Beckett's hands shot to the waistband of his breeches and yanked them up rapidly, startling Elizabeth so much as to drop the bottle, which spilled its contents all over Beckett's backside. He's conscious? How long has he been so?

The alcohol soaked quickly through the fabric, penetrating his raw wounds. At the first nauseatingly painful sting of the alcohol, Beckett yowled, clenching his backside in mind-numbing pain. He could only continue to utter barely intelligible curse words at the intense sting that had now been delivered to his most sensitive region.

He writhed about on the bed, burying his face deep within the pillow to muffle the involuntary sounds that left his mouth, kicking his legs as the sting and burn of the alcohol shot through every nerve of his body. Elizabeth sat there on the bed next to him, staring at him as he writhed in pain.

Once the stinging pain had reduced to a bearable amount, which was still high for Cutler's standards, he finally removed his face from the pillow and lifted his head to glare at Elizabeth.

"What the bloody hell do you think you are doing, removing my breeches?" he demanded, contempt in every feature of his face.

"I was cleaning your wounds," she matter-of-factly replied. "They were seeping and looked terrible."

"And what gives you the right to look at them?" he snarled.

"You would have died had I not," she replied. His frown softened a great deal, yet still remained on his face. He was through with speaking hastily.

"So I am to assume you've already cleaned the wounds." He looked uncomfortable thinking that she had been looking at him in such a way with him completely unaware.

"Yes, I have. You were in a coma, on the brink of death. Apparently I did well, because you've regained consciousness."

He dropped his head back onto the bed, his chin striking the pillow.

"Why couldn't you have let me die, then," he stated miserably. "I do believe you've exacted your revenge quite successfully. I'm of no further use to you."

"I never thought you'd be wishing for death so soon." She placed the rum bottle on the table by the bed.

"Ha. I've been wishing for death from day one," he said, gripping the pillow with his hands and not looking at her. "Why do you think I didn't complain, as I felt my health declining this past week? I could sense it. It would have been like going to sleep and never waking up."

"On the contrary. I'm sure a death due to such grotesque wounds would have been quite painful. I believe you owe me your gratitude."

He looked up from his position on the bed, and sneered.

"Are you really holding on to this foolish hope that you'll get me to beg on my knees for forgiveness for my role in your father's death?"

He immediately felt that the statement had come out rather nasty, but it was too late now. His sneer faded upon the realization.

Elizabeth looked affronted at the brazen comment, but her expression didn't change.

"It's not because of that. I simply had an urge to try to restore you to full health, is all. Apparently I succeeded… too well, because your old attitude has been restored as well."

Beckett felt a strange twinge, sensing that she was sincere in what she had said. Could she really have been helping me just to get me well again? Ah, most certainly this 'urge' is tied to her underlying motives of forcing an apology from me. But then… why did she prevent the situation in Jack's cabin? It would have been humiliating but wouldn't have killed me. It's as if she's… looking out for my well-being.

Utterly confused and even slightly fearful of what her intentions could be, he changed the subject to another just as important one.

"Why are you here? But more importantly, why am I here?"

She thought for a second, and then answered.

"You are here because I figured that being dry and warm was better than lying on the floor of the damp brig, inching closer and closer to death. And I am here because this is my cabin."

He propped his head up on his elbows and looked at her, confusion written all over his face, but no anger.

"Ah. I see. But why, pray tell, would you take me to your cabin? Are there no other warm, dry places on the ship?"

She sighed, staring down at her hands, murmuring her reply.

"I couldn't have put you in one of the hammocks in the forecastle, not only because it wouldn't be comfortable at all, but also because the rest of the crew is down there, and who knows what they'd do to you. Besides that, there are only two other cabins, but those are occupied by Jack and Barbossa."

The confusion was still evident on his face.

"So I am to understand that you allowed me the use of your own bed, solely to improve my declining health?"

She saw that his expression was no longer angry, and rather embarrassed now, she silently nodded in response to his question.

"And why did you not stay elsewhere?" he asked.

Her face flushed with embarrassment as she looked away from him, failing to formulate the words. She glanced at him for a brief moment, seeing that his look was still expectant, if not a bit curious. He hadn't told her his assumptions. Why did she not stay with Sparrow? His cabin – his bed – is large enough for more than two, even. It does not make any sense.

Elizabeth felt like being honest with Beckett, because telling him that it was none of his business would only put him on the defensive again, his arrogance and contempt reemerging in the process.

"Well, I couldn't stay with the crew because one of them whom I had requested to leave the ship from that earlier incident in Jack's cabin remained, and now hates me more than ever and is probably seeking revenge for his embarrassment."

There was a pause, as Beckett thought quietly, his gaze focused on the headboard of the bed. Suddenly he turned to her.

"What about Jack?" he said, a knowing look on his face. Several beats went by, as she thought of how to describe the argument.

"We couldn't decide on the sleeping arrangements, and I was too exhausted to continue bickering with him."

"And so you came here," he said with a sigh as he stared straight ahead, deep in thought.

"Well, you had been unconscious all day, so it'd be like I was sleeping alone as usual."

Immediately upon finishing the statement, she clammed up, knowing that she had revealed too much. Beckett knew her to be married, and admitting that she usually slept alone was an easy issue for him to prod at. She had given him a target for his insults.

"So Master Turner is not on the ship," he said blandly. She took a deep breath and awaited his first dig, as he continued to speak. "I had figured as much."

He had avoided insulting her! It was a major relief, but there was still much more time for him with his newfound ammo to say things that would hurt her more personally.

"Well, now that you're back on your feet again, you should be returned to the brig."

He sighed exasperatingly.

"Is there any way that I can avoid going back there?" he asked her, gazing so piercingly at her that she was unnerved.

"I'd be much more uncomfortable sleeping next to a conscious man than next to an unconscious one. You were in a coma; there was nothing you could have done."

"—Except regain consciousness," was the reply. "You put an awful lot of trust in the idea that I would remain in a comatose state." He bit his bottom lip, stopping any further speech. He had wanted to mention that it was not very wise of her to do what she had done, but that would only get him returned to the brig that much quicker.

"I did," she replied. "But now you've recovered."

"Not completely. I still can't sleep on my back, or sit, for that matter." He looked slightly ashamed to be admitting such a thing.

"Well, I'm afraid that that's going to take quite a while. I was referring to the seeping of the wounds, and your state of consciousness."

"I would really prefer to stay here for the time being, if that's in any way plausible."

She was taken aback. The nerve, of this ungrateful man, who not only murdered my father, but also almost murdered me and Will, to ask to overstay his welcome!

"There's nothing that you could do to persuade me to allow you to stay any longer than you already have. I'm sorry."

He flashed her an expression hinting at mischievousness.

"But what if I fall back into sickness again?" he said innocently.

"I wouldn't push your luck twice if I were you," she replied, looking agitated.

It dawned on Beckett that Elizabeth really had done him a great service in bringing him into her cabin and restoring him to health. She hadn't even so much as mentioned the apology she desired from him. He simply had to improve his attitude about his new life, or he'd never be awarded any new privileges. He was reminded of his youth in the Royal Navy, working his way up in the rankings, and then after achieving a high status as an officer, switching over to an even higher rank in the East India Trading Company. It hadn't taken much longer after that point to ascend to the rank of lord. His rise through the ranks had depended entirely upon his attitude, and so he would have to go about things similarly towards his captors. If I am to ever make it off this ship, I'll have to at least feign some sort of respect for these heathens. I still can't fathom why Elizabeth did me this service, as well as the rescue in the cabin, expecting nothing in return….

He had been in a sort of reverie during this time. She could only glare at him, then back at the bottle of rum, and at the rotting food on the table. At least there are no flies at sea, she mused.

Suddenly Cutler spoke, making eye contact with her briefly and then dropping his eyes slightly. He sighed quietly.

"Thank you for restoring me to health," he murmured, his voice soft and low. "And for rescuing me in Sparrow's cabin."

She was a bit shocked at his admission, and her face showed it. He glanced back up at her, reading her reaction.

"I do appreciate your unselfish efforts. And I'm sorry for being ungrateful for your restoring my health; I just didn't completely understand why you'd do so."

The pleasant expression on her face faded into that of suspicion. "I know why you're telling me this."

He shook his head, turning onto his side so that his body was now facing her. "No. It's nothing to do with what you suspect. I'll return to the brig without further ado; I've inconvenienced you long enough. I just thought that you should know of my gratitude… while we're alone."

He finished his statement with an intense stare that seemed to peer directly into her soul, and a sort of half-smile that wasn't quite a smirk. Was this Cutler Beckett treating her this way, looking at her this way?

She gave him a slightly confused half-smile, albeit genuine, and started to move off of the bed. This situation was weird. The bed suddenly felt ten times smaller. Why had he suddenly shifted gears? Well, he wasn't requesting anything in addition to his admission, so that was a positive thing.

Suddenly his nose wrinkled and he made a face of disgust.

"This wig's downright awful," he said, touching the offending hairpiece atop his head. He glanced at Elizabeth, who had no readable expression on her face.

He pulled the wig off his head, revealing a mess of curly light brown hair that tumbled down the back of his neck. Holding the wig in one hand, he scooted backwards out of bed and examined it more closely with a disgusted look on his face. Expertly he removed the ribbon from the wig and used it to tie his hair back in a low ponytail. He then tossed the wig onto the bedside table, next to the uneaten malodorous food.

"Ah," he said smilingly, upon finishing. "That's much better."

Elizabeth could only gape at him. This was the first time she had seen Beckett's real hair, and it rather surprised her. His real hair complimented his face much better than the pompous white wig, surprisingly rendering him rather ordinary. Now he looked so… normal, so commonplace, so… young… this look suited him much better. It was unnerving to say that mannerisms and speech aside, Beckett quite resembled a more youthful, more hygienic member of the Pearl's crew.

"Well, I guess I'll be heading back to the brig then," he said, a sad smile on his face, as he turned to leave the room.

She couldn't believe the transformation she had witnessed. Not only had her mortal enemy Cutler Beckett thanked her for what she had done, but then he was going to return to the brig without a fight. It was unreal.

Elizabeth jerked her head at the statement, looking over at him still in a bit of awe. As he moved towards the door, she spoke.

"Beckett," she said, with urgency.

He turned and looked at her, a glimmer of hope in his eyes, but no readable expression on his face.

"You can choose either to return to the brig now or spend the day working aboard the ship."

He perked up at her words.

"Really," he said, making it sound more like a statement than a question. He had expected this.

"Now that you're well, you can be of use on the ship."

He looked deep in thought, realizing that Jack, Barbossa, and especially Pintel, would be wandering around the ship.

"—But what about the rest of the crew?" he asked. "Won't they—"

Elizabeth was prepared for this.

"You'll work in a place where they don't often frequent, to reduce your chances of being recognized. You will be harder to recognize as it is, being as you look… rather different without your… without your wig," she said, glancing at the offending object on the table.

"Yes, I suppose I do," he replied surprisingly warmly. He clasped his hands behind his back quite regally, swallowing his pride in the process.

"Very well; where am I to work?"

Thanks to my Christmas reviewers! So very dedicated, hehe! Well, I hope everyone had a great Christmas! I must say, I liked writing this chapter. I hoped you liked reading it!