Disclaimer: Any names dropped here and found in the movie aren't mine, and anyone who claims otherwise owes me a lot of money.

Notes:
This fic is currently being re-drafted, and the new chapters cannot be posted here until I've revised all of them. For the latest redone chapter, visit my profile, where you'll find a link. Feedback is still highly appreciated.

Also, please note that some author comments are embedded in the text since the brackets were taken out by TPB.


Forty-Six & 2, Chapter Four - Internecine
lethal to both sides

"I am a member of this crew, and as such, I deserve the same benefits that the others receive," Elizabeth ranted, pacing to and fro along the poop deck.

Jack leaned back against the helm with his arms crossed, wearing an exasperated expression that only gave way momentarily to an unpreventable roll of the eyes. "While you are correct, Miss Swann, I would like to reinforce that each man and woman aboard my ship is required to pull his own weight. As it is your turn to help guard upon our next docking, I'm afraid I must decline your request to join me in Bermuda."

"That's not fair! I had to remain aboard while we were in Tortuga."

"Considering that, yourself excluded, we are pirates, I feel I must remind you, yet again, that fairness is of no accord on the Pearl, and consequently, you were not a member of the crew at that time, so realistically, it betrays that your plea has neither foundation nor merit."

She stopped her pacing and huffed. Why was it that every time she had a conversation with the man, she ended up wanting to rip out every single strand of hair rooted to her scalp? Settling for a tactical alteration, she softened her features. "Captain Sparrow," she began meekly, "you owe this to me."

"Has what transpired in my cabin eluded your mind's grasp so swiftly?"

Her face scrunched up as she recalled her failed attempt at wickedness just two days ago. Jack claimed she was a thief, and she couldn't exactly refute that fact.

"On the same page now, are we? Then perhaps you might be on your way to the galley, as night seems to…be advancing…" he left the sentence unfinished as something caught his eye.

Puzzled, Elizabeth turned to follow his line of vision and saw an approaching vessel. A flag was being run up one of the masts, and the wind caught hold of it. She raised an eyebrow at the jack, "Pirates on a galleon?"

"What man in this cursed sea would be fool enough to offer no quarter to the Black Pearl?" he wondered aloud, eyes narrowing.

A tremor of fear and anticipation rocked Elizabeth's spine as she thought on a similar situation, and she breathlessly posed, "What are we going to do?"

Jack placed a hand on his chin in contemplation, smoothing over the hair there, while the unabashed excitement overtook his features. Ignoring a direct response to her, he spun around, barking, "Clear the decks, you decadent and raucous cads! The Pearl's procured herself some attention. Seems these swine be needing a lesson in pirating, and I can think of none better suited for inculcating the proper instruction than the lot of us."

"The Cap'n be right, boys," Gibbs bellowed, eyes feasting upon the enemy ship. "Bring up Captain Death! Matelot, Tearlach, Duncan, ready portside guns!"

The men scattered about the decks, all itching with the prospects of an impending win.

Elizabeth was still watching the ship, noticing an influx of movement on the starboard side and trying to conceive just who the mysterious instigators might be by filtering through the many ship and pirate names and descriptions that had been filed away in her mind.

"Wha'll yeh have me do with her?" Gibbs asked from one of the short staircases.

Having forgotten the woman's presence for an instant, Jack slanted his eyes towards Elizabeth, who was now looking on expectantly. "Novice though she may be, I fancy the lady will make quite the powder monkey."

Stifling a protest, Elizabeth nodded, the task being a welcome alternative to a cabin lockdown, and made her way below, where she met with the chaos just like Galaxia! of an ill-prepared gun deck.

"What a'ya needin', Girlie? 'S'work to be done. No room for a kitchen wench," Duncan professed, carrying an armful of cannonballs.

"The Captain sent me down. He says I am to work the powder."

Pausing for a second, he sized her up. "Aye, then," he shrugged, quickly cozying up to the idea. "Better you d'n me." If you guys have trouble understanding my attempts at dialect, please don't hesitate to inform me.

Up top, Jack felt a minute my newt trill of dread creep through his body as the sun slipped into the ocean, and the first shots rang out from the other ship. He had never been one to favor artillery force over generally idle threats; he knew they would soon need to turn the battlefield to their advantage in order to neutralize any possibilities of a raking. Deciding not to even chance a broadside, given his cargo, he nodded to Joshamee, who shouted hasty orders to the men still on deck. Barrels and crates were unlashed and small arms removed. The men quickly positioned themselves in protected areas while Cotton brought the ship about, causing it to round on their adversaries.

Down in the gun deck, Elizabeth struggled with the huge powder bag, spilling some when the first cannonball was blasted from the Pearl.

"Hurry up with that, Missy," she heard one of the men urge.

Gritting her teeth, she topped off the powder and drove in a wad of paper before continuing on with the others, quickly picking up on the vital "duck and cover" intervals.

"Can't be less than sixty of them," Gibbs murmured, lowering his scope.

"Aye," Jack concurred as he took a cursory glance at the opposing vessel before directing his attention to those manning the cannons. "Chains and bars," he called. "Mother Nature's not on our side, nor are tact and time. Take her sails." His head jerked to the side when he spotted one of the riflemen searching for more ammunition. "Ladbroc! Get over here, Man!"

Below, Elizabeth pulled her hands away from her ears and began funneling gunpowder into another cannon. She tossed a nod to a nearby gunner, and then proceeded to the next awaiting gun.

She was fumbling with a wet fuse when Ladbroc grabbed her shoulder and tugged at her bag. "Cap'n Jack wants you topside," he explained shortly.

"Now?" she asked in disbelief.

He grunted what she deemed as a confirmation.

Practically growling, she thrust the sack into the man's chest and made her way up the stairs. She was about to step out onto the deck when someone took hold of her, retaining her in the awning. "Blast, what is so important that you need me up here in the middle of an engagement?" she erupted, swinging round to face her Captain.

Oddly pleased to find that she was undaunted by his grasp, Jack smirked. "Enjoying the onslaught, are we? What would your father say?"

"Likely, he would observe that you clearly are not as brilliant as everyone professes, if you're gamboling at a time like this."

He dropped his hand and backed up slightly. "You could be right about that."

She pursed her lips, her vexation terribly overt. "Well?" she prompted.

"Impatience is relatively unbecoming, do you not agree?" At her splenetic sigh, he moved on. "We have an injury on our hands; needs mending."

"I'm not a nursemaid."

"You would not mind informing old Mr. Cotton of that, now would you? Haven't the heart to do it m'self," he explained, donning a regretful, almost mournful look while folding his hands.

Her eyes widened. "Where is he?"

A wavering breath and a wayward glance. "Aftercabin."

She raised a questioning brow, but said, "I shall retrieve my bag from the brig."

"No time. You go to his side. I'll get it."

"Fine." She brushed past him and went to his quarters.

Her inner fist made contact with her forehead upon notation of the empty bed. She bolted through the refectory, only to be greeted with a tightly shut door. "Jack, don't do this! Jack!"

"Apologies for the smoke and mirrors, Love."

"Do not dare patronize me, you prevaricating scamp!" She assaulted the doorknobs to no avail. "You cannot do this. I'm a crewmember!"

"And I am your Captain, so, Miss Swann, you are hereby ordered to remain in this cabin until I come for you. Save you fancy the idea of your lover's reunion being hindered by a coffin, you will occupy your time in there with something exempt of vain contemplations of an escape, lest you actually achieve liberation."

· § ·

This was not his scene. He shivered just passing by it. He had spent years purposefully avoiding the place, and now, he was actually inside it: one of its patrons.

Shaking his head, Governor Weatherby Swann took a handkerchief from his jacket and swiped at the sweat that glistened across his brow before lifting his tankard off of the bar and heading over to a table at the back. There sat his reasons for this otherwise unnecessary trip to the less-than-reputable establishment. TweedleDee and TweedleDum actually, it was 1872, so lay off. A pair, indeed. "Gentlemen, how nice to see you this evening." He warily eyed their drinks. "I do hope that you are off duty tonight."

"Evening, Governor. Quite right, we're off duty. Not wise to be impaired while on watch," Murtogg replied.

"No, it is not."

"What brings you here, Sir?"

"Business, Mr. Mullroy. May I?" he requested, indicating a vacant chair at the table.

"Certainly, Sir. Why, we would be honored."

Nodding his appreciation, Weatherby took the seat. He strove to relax, to blend in, but he knew it wasn't working, even when he took a long draught of his drink. He tried not to look at it with complete disgust when he replaced it onto the table; the stuff was absolutely abhorrently awful, nigh atrocious.

"You said you were here on business, Governor. Would it be any of ours?"

Hesitantly, he conceded the fact. "Yes. To my understanding, the two of you aided a well-known convict in his flight a few nights ago." His understanding was attributed to one of the stable boys who frequented the tavern and had overheard the mention of Jack Sparrow's escape. Apparently, while in an inebriated stupor (though truthfully, that inebriation was only a presumption), the two men had boasted about having crossed paths with the infamous pirate captain in recent days. There was also talk about him ravishing a nun, or something of the sort, and Weatherby had connected it with the report that Commodore Norrington had given him the day before.

Murtogg was choking. "Sorry, Sir. Could you repeat that?"

Weatherby sighed. He could tell it was going to be a long evening.

· § ·

The cries of the cannons had eased into a slow and steady rhythm. The battle was coming to a close, and it looked as though Captain Sparrow and his sparse crew had actually defeated the warship. That prefigured triumph fueled Jack's ambition, and he gave the boarding order, leading the flock himself.

In a matter of seconds, though, quiescence reigned. For as soon as he set foot upon the galleon, her sailors fell. Weapons slammed against planks. The cannons grew silent, and the entire ship slept. There were no pleas of mercy, nor battle wagers, for they were all dead.

"Stay back," Jack ordered those who were readying the gangplanks.

"What's got ya unearthed, Captain?" Gibbs called.

Jack shook his head, taking in the spectacle. Hands on hips, he stepped over to one of the deceased men and nudged him with the toe of his boot. He repeated this process several times with different unresponsive bodies, then turned to his crew. "Evidently run upon a dead ship." 'Or a cursed one,' he finished to himself.

"Rather she ran upon us."

He acknowledged the correction with an accepting nod. "We'll leave her purging to brotherly hands," he announced. He moved to the flagged mast and drew the banner down. He removed, then flipped it before finally sending it back into the air bottom-side up. Once done, he returned to his ship and had the somber crew resume course.

Admittedly, he was more shaken by the scene than he was letting on. It was not every day that an entire ship dropped dead upon boarding. He had half-expected some sort of protest from his crewmen, who he knew were looking forward to the raid, but none had come. For once, superstition had been on his side. Still, he promised them a future excursion to the Isla de Muerta and his own surplus of goodies before retiring to his cabins.

Remembering that he had the Governor's daughter holed up inside, he hesitantly unlocked the doors before he gripped one of the refectory knobs and twisted, belatedly receiving the neural transmission that alerted him to a burning sensation. Wrenching his hand away from the offensive doorknob, he yelped. "What in God's name, Woman?" he implored.

"Jack?" a tiny and surprised voice behind the door asked.

"Captain," he habitually redressed. He heard movement and a clanking noise. Then, the doors were opened, and she leaned against the frame, a folded apron in hand, her arms crossed. "Just what have you been doing in here?" he questioned, passing into the cabin, eyes shifting about.

"Protecting myself," she replied, following him.

"And how is marring me 'protecting' you?"

"You were the one spouting about coffins! Did you assume that I would merely kneel in prayer for a miraculous victory while the rest of you were slaughtered?"

"'Slaughtered,' Love? A bit dramatic, is it not?"

"You suddenly locked me up in here without explanation aside from a verse of morbid advice. I'm no simpleton. Obviously we were up against formidable opponents. I took fit measures."

"Indeed you must admit that a pail of hot coals is hardly 'fit' for defense. If this is how you secure yourself, I see no profit in reconsidering my decree that you remain on the ship while we are docked in Bermuda."

"But—"

"You aren't going and that's that. We'll no longer exhaust the issue. Now if you don't mind, I have some mending to do," he indicated his injured hand, "and you need to prepare the night's meal. Good evening, Miss Swann," he said dismissively.

Sighing, Elizabeth ungrudgingly left him to brood. She had more important things to grapple with.

· § ·

Commodore Norrington burst through the front doors of the Governor's mansion. "Governor Swann! Governor?" He had been to every one of the Port Royal missions and had not once encountered Elizabeth.

"Sir? Sir, is everything alright?" a rushing maid asked.

"I need to speak with the Governor immediately."

"Certainly, Sir. I'll go announce you. Won't you wait here?"

"That won't be necessary, Martha." Weatherby's head popped from behind a partially opened door. "We're here in the drawing room, Commodore. Please, do join us." He opened it wider, permitting the officer to enter and shut it behind him. He turned and indicated the man sitting in a chair by the fire. "This is Father Clary. He's brought us news of Elizabeth."

"Oh, Elizabeth? How is Miss Swann?" Commodore Norrington questioned, sizing up the middle-aged priest.

"Your daughter is a God-sent, Governor," the holy man said. "She went along with Father Avalon and a few of the sisters to the Havana missions."

"Oh my. How long do you suppose they will remain in Havana?"

The priest scratched his head. "A…a few months, perhaps?"

"Months? That hardly seems appropriate, given the timing and circumstances."

Clary glared at Norrington. "Perhaps it were a matter of weeks. Forgive me, Commodore, sometimes these things do slip from grasp when there are more sanctified events to be concerned with."

The officer balked. "Forgive me, Father. I meant no offense in the matter."

Weatherby cleared his throat. "Perhaps a late supper would ease us all, Gentlemen." He checked the clock. It was nearly midnight. 'Those two had better be taking care of things,' he told himself. Undoubtedly he was going to be unable to watch over the bumbling pair, as he was needed to preside over certain matters.

· § ·

Captain Sparrow was quite picturesque at the moment. While he now donned his jacket and hat over his customary garb, his feet were bare, one pant leg drawn up, due to a rather unhappy encounter in his cabin. He held a bottle of rum in hand as he let the other run lovingly over the helm while he gazed over his ship and the dark waters. His congested mind seeped into rumination.

For nearly a decade, Captain Jack Sparrow had been carefully plotting out his revenge against the man who he had gullibly considered trustworthy at one time. His first mate. Barbossa had taught him a lot, and he was eager to return the favor, but he had bided his time. He had been vigilant.

Commandeer a few ships. Ask enough, but not too many questions. Pick up a few decent comrades along the way. Wait for the curse to be lifted, the opportune moment. Caress his way to revenge.

He had followed through, his singular bloodlust guiding him.

Then, the opportune moment had come upon them, and Jack was ready, but there was one variable that he hadn't considered. A swan had gotten herself in the way. A frozen, pleading look and a glance at the boy had sealed the shot's fate.

And he was free, but the victorious exaltations that he had expected had not come. Instead, a cold feeling had washed over him, and he took reverie in the surrounding loot, leaving the reluctant pirate and the fraudulent sot to each other. After all, he did have everything that he wanted.

Or so he had thought. For the lady had taken his revenge savoring; his tiny crew had absconded with his beloved ship, and the Commodore was ready to courteously take his freedom and ever-lasting soul.

There he was, Death's hands clutching madly around his neck, his sentencing being proclaimed distantly. Despondently beaten, he longed for escape, but lacked the required momentum and purpose. It appeared that Jack Sparrow would meet with his end.

The order was given, and in that moment, just before the release, he snapped to attention and found his escape, a new vision of freedom, standing in the shadows of the fort.

Elizabeth Swann, daughter of a Governor, betrothed to a Commodore, but loved by a blacksmith, a proper lady, beholden to her society. One who clearly longed for something that was out of reach. One who represented that of which he had been deemed unworthy.

It was a vision that had waned all too quickly as the girl dropped out of sight. And then, he was sinking, his noose tightening, his whole body alive with the rush that was death, yet he was unimpeachably undead and almost remorsefully full of gratitude.

Years later, he had returned to Port Royal, having found his purpose. He was going to make Will Turner an offer that he wouldn't dare refuse, but instead of finding the malleable blacksmith, he had been faced with a bitter, jilted spinster. He should have abandoned her to the Commodore and her mundane life when he had the chance. Just what had made him go back for her after his latest escape in the first place?

Deciding almost immediately that he didn't want to know that answer, he ran a hand over his face. Their relationship was internecine at best, and after the earlier events of the day, he dubbed any lingering thoughts of the swan as masochistic.

Luckily for him, his finicky quartermaster jerked him from those particular contemplations.

"What be it now, Gibbs?"

"Sorry, Sir. We got problems below deck."

Raising an eyebrow, Jack motioned for a nearby man to take the helm and followed Gibbs.

Down in the mess, Elizabeth was meeting those problems head on. She swung her borrowed sword hard, working to defend herself from Marty's advances. Most of the crew had been eating when the fight had broken out, and they had migrated toward the door in order to give the pair proper sparing space and steer clear of any miscalculated strikes.

She lunged forward, taking a chunk of her opponent's plaited goatee, and held her mirth at the horrified look that she received from him. His play became livelier, and his blade sliced at her upper arm. Pausing for a moment to inspect the tiny stream of blood, she glared at him.

"Yeh said you were wantin' it to look real, Missy," he whispered accusingly.

"You could have at least warned me," she chastised, attempting a slash at his midsection.

He jumped back. "Watch it, Wench. It be me taking all the gambles here. Put anu'er mark on me an' ye'll be the one nursing 'em all nigh'."

Maturely, she made a face, sending the broad part of her blade into one of his inner thighs, causing him to topple. "Hah!" she exclaimed, edging the cutlass beneath his chin. "You were saying?"

He sighed discontentedly. "Be done with it, then."

She eyed him for a second, assessing his sudden demeanor-adjustment, then raised her sword, poising for attack.

"That's quite enough," an authoritative voice rang.

Holding in a grin, Elizabeth turned to see the Captain making his way through the undersized crowd, tailed by a fretful Mr. Gibbs.

Wordlessly, he relieved her of the weapon and handed it, along with his rum, over to Gibbs before ordering Marty to rise. "Show's over, men. Back to work!"

Grudgingly, the others trudged away, a few complaining about the loss of their meal.

"How to go about this?" Jack wondered, taking in the two who were furiously warring with their eyes. His own sent a pleading gaze toward the hidden heavens.

"Are we to stand here for the duration of the night?" Elizabeth asked.

Shaking his head, he fixed her. "Of course not. You may return to the galley." She opened her mouth, moving for contest, but a flat-lined-cutoff from his injured hand and an irritated glance shut her up. Rubbing at his left temple with the coordinating free hand, his other fingers insistently indicated the door that led to the galley.

Tossing her arms up in an act of annoyed acceptance, she did as he bade.

"What about this 'un?"

"Just…set him to the swabs for now. We'll chat later." He took his rum and waved the others away.

"Aye," Gibbs chirped, motioning for Marty to accompany him topside.

'Should be interesting,' Jack thought. He hungrily gulped down some of the rum, setting an anxious eye on the galley door. He pulled off his hat and jacket and dropped them onto the table, then removed his scabbard and pistol. "Best not give temptation a fighting chance," he decided, allowing them to clank onto the table with the other items. He took a step forward.

· § ·

"Right this way. We'll have you to your ship in no time, Father Avalon," Murtogg insisted, directing the age-weathered priest down the dock.

"So good of you gentlemen to take this upon yourselves. Truly good men."

"Y-yes. Thank you, Father," Mullroy said quietly, inwardly praying that the nearing rowboat would speed up. The Governor had ordered them to make sure that the priest got to his escort securely. His partner was a bit dim to figure out that Swann now held their welfare in his hands. The Commodore was not a prodding man, but the same could not be said of the Governor. He had agreed to keep certain information to himself as long as they undertook some "necessary tasks." Needless to say, they had been more than willing to comply.

"Ahoy there," called the row man, coming alongside the dock.

"Here you are, Father. We wish you safe passage."

"Thank you, thank you. God smiles upon good and loyal Navy men like yourselves. If only all of the soldiers were are gracious as you."

The two merely nodded, helping Avalon into the tiny boat. They waved him off.

"I've been thinking, Friend. Perhaps we should have a discussion with the Commodore. Come clean and all."

"But the Governor—"

"Sparrow did steal my boat, after all, and I heard that Miss Swann was headed for that mission as well. What if he knew her for the kind heart she has and went there to kidnap her? Why, we might receive a commendation."

Mullroy turned slowly to face the other man, desperately fingering his rifle.

· § ·

"I assume Will gave you some tutelage."

She cursed herself for jumping at the sound of his voice; she had been expecting him. "He only taught me some basics. 'Swordplay is not appropriate for a governor's daughter,'" she quoted most of the men in her life while placing a recently cleaned plate atop the short stack.

His throat uttered a reactionary filler. "Well, the crew says it was Marty who struck first," he was moving, "so I came to inquire as to whether or not you wish to conduct the ceremony."

"Hmm? There's going to be a ceremony?" she asked with apparent interest, scrubbing at a ladel.

"Aye. You're welcome to me own pistol, since you have none."

The dish slipped, and she whirled to face him. "And why might I need a pistol for the ceremony, Mr. Sparrow?"

His head slanted to one side in consideration. "Surely there is an infinite number of ways to properly see Marty to Davey Jones, but I hear the pistol leans more to the side of civility." He held a beat. "O'course, this is a pirate execution. If you wish another method, have your go."

Her soggy, soiled, and soapy hands had already covered her gaping mouth, and her eyes were wide as she registered everything. "Why on Earth are you executing Marty?"

"Now, Miss Swann, I must confess, you were a mite keener in your youth. Perhaps the sea's having malapropos influences over that head of yours?" When she offered no input, he continued, "The Articles govern those aboard this ship, M'lady. After all, organization—lax though it may often appear—is a requirement of a tight vessel; without it, not a man stands a chance versus Neptune. You once expressed your appetite for literary recounts of piracy; surely you can see how one might have been led into thinking that you would have embossed the standards on your mind."

A soft gasp escaped, and her petite hands fell. "Marty is to be shot because of me?"

"Aye." He leaned against a nearby beam and inspected his dirty nails. "Do you or do you not wish to be done with it yourself?"

She worried the inside of her lip for a few still moments. "It was I who struck first, so it shall be me whom you shoot."

"Back to giving orders again, are you?" His tone sank, "You'll do well to take into account your place on my ship before you speak."

She bit back a rebuke, settling for a facial display of all the disdain she could muster.

His arms crossed over his chest at her challenge, that maddening look of quizzical smugness adorning his features as he resumed his pursuit. "Is it true?"

She assumed he was questioning her proclaimation of guilt, and, gulping, she managed a strangled confirmation.

"A pity, then."

Her face contorted with sudden rage as she spat,"'A pity'?"

"Oh yes." He drew closer. 'Tis a bit of an ignominy, really: you being so poor at the art of craft."

Flustered, she paused, her mouth opening and closing twice in registration. "A-are you accusing me of lying?"

"You misunderstood me. I did not offer an accusation. I am, in fact, finding you guilty of making a terribly sore, and let us reinforce fruitless, attempt at proving your ability, or rather lack there of, to defend yourself, given worthy adversary and reason."

She rubbed an arm over her forehead, avoiding him and his dead-on sumation and berating of her antics.

"So you conned Marty into going along with that little ploy, eh?" A sigh of frustration was his reply. "Tell me, Love, why is it that you find yourself willing to go to any means that might get you onto that little island?"

"I'd think it obvious," she gave, almost nonchalantly, dropping her gaze. She smirked. "I see you found the glass," she said, speculating at his bare feet and leg. The rolled-up cuff revealed a few fresh cuts and scratches.

"Actually, it found me. Amazing, the amount of trouble you caused with some glass and a well-placed tether strung along a few spare pulleys." He scowled. "Just where did you come by all those shards?"

"They weren't from your precious rum bottles," she returned nastily, backing into the wash bin as he advanced another step.

"Well, you shall be delighted to know, I'm sure, that you've got yourself a full night ahead of you. As there's no doubt my cabin's full of these little ruses, you shall be purging dbz flashbacks it of all your creations, once you are done in here, of course."

"If it offers any appeasement, they were not meant for you."

He placed his hands behind his back, stilling their expressions. "Somehow, I have difficulty buying into that. Now, if we could return attention back to the subject, Darling. Why do you want so badly to go ashore?"

"Will," she admitted finally. "I owe it to Will. And-and it would seem that I'm indebted to you as well." He was suddenly very close again. Just how did he do that? Barely an arm's length of space separated them now.

"Ah yes, my repayment."

"I have a few items of value that I can put up."

"No."

"No?"

"No, that basis isn't going to work. As you're constantly asserting, you are a member of the crew. Once we find fit game, you'll likely be able to offer a full settlement."

"Oh," she said simply.

He allowed his arms to fall before him. "Still, should you have your heart set upon a respite from the sea, you might put you efforts into a," he made an involved motion with his hands, "new course. Perhaps..." he looked away for an instant and sniffed, "a friendly supplication?"

She shut him out for a second, again toying with her inner lip. "I…may I please go to the island with you?" She opened her eyes to see that he had crept forward.

"Not too dishonorable, I hope, pleading with a pirate." Her dissatisfied look told him enough. "Very well, Miss Swann, you may accompany me to Fort Brine; as long as you look the part, we should meet with only minor hitches."

"I'm no pirate," she stressed warily. She knew very well that Fort Brine was a notorious pirate hang out.

"Right you are." He leaned closer, eyes darkening. His mouth moved to her ear. "But just between you and I, pirates are made, not born, and once the sea has her grasp on you, no man nor woman," he pulled back slightly and lowered his eyes, "is capable of resistance," he purred, his gaze travelling along with the rush of pink that bloomed from her chest and flooded into her cheeks until it clashed with hers. "Savvy?"

Lids lowering until she found herself intently eyeing his sly mouth, she white-knuckled the wash bin, arching backwards over it, away from Jack.

Noting this, he took a retreating step and glanced over her shoulder. "Best get to work, Miss Swann. Wouldn't want to waste the entirety of this exquisite night with the dishes, now would you?"

Swallowing again, she numbly replied in the negative.

"I thought not. My cabin stands no chance of being rightened otherwise." He straightened. "I'll leave you to it, then. Should you find yourself in need of my…assistance, you know where to locate me," he said before abruptly exiting the galley.

Erratically laboring to fill her lungs, Elizabeth turned so that she could splash a good bit of the chilly, filthy water on her face. She scrubbed at it madly with the front of her already damp dress. "Pirate. He's a pirate, and he turned Will into one too." She breathed deeply, and stared down at her reflection in the murky water. "Will," she whispered desperately.

'Internecine, indeed,' Jack thought as he resumed his stay at the helm.

Presently, though, a deadly encounter with the swan was anything but objectionable.

'Will's swan,' he reminded himself. 'Pandora's box. The Sirens' song. Forbidden fruit of Eden.' Something forever sought after, but never had. A conquest.

A grand and toothy grin danced about his features.

Captain Sparrow did love a good conquest…


Original Content: 2003.09.13