Being stranded on an island isn't much fun.

Being stranded on an island that you have already been unjustifiably stranded on several times is more like the opposite of whatever fun really means. Honestly, if it happened again— and he hoped, no he prayed, it wouldn't— but if it did, he would simply be forced to name the godforsaken place Sparrow Isle. There was simply no other choice in the matter.

Oh the first time, it had been misery. Being marooned there by a mutinous crew and first mate, watching Barbossa sail off with the Pearl… his Black Pearl. How he fought at first, with anything and everything he could find. He had kicked trees and coconuts and tried to pick a fight with an unwilling, and rather peaceful, sea turtle. Then the misery set in, and the sea turtle had been gracious enough to listen to his yammering on about the whole ordeal. Poor turtle. It had been nice enough to lead him to a hidden rum store though. Nice turtle. It had probably wanted him to drink himself to death so it wouldn't have to listen to any more of the sob story. Smart turtle. But rum… oh the rum was glorious. How he had loved that turtle that day. Good turtle.

Thanked his stars when those rumrunners stopped by for their cache of the glorious stuff, taking it and him with them.

The second time had been no less painful. In fact, it had pained him beyond what it had before. He had had to watch that man sail off with his ship for a second time. A second time! Finding that the rumrunners had long since abandoned that very island… well it hadn't done much for his hopes of getting off of it. And Elizabeth Swann, beautiful girl, with a wicked streak he was sure, had been there at his worst.

The sneaky girl had made sure he drank enough of the rum the runners had left behind—he had passed out, leaving her to her devices. And then when he'd woke to the smell of burning… burning plants and fruit and… rum… he had demanded to know what she was doing and what happened to the rum! Of course she had a good reason to burn it, but at the time, he had wanted to shoot her in her pretty little head. Reason runs thin when you're marooned on an island after all. It also runs thin when a beautiful girl manipulates you—you who are supposed to be one of the most cunning men in the history of cunning men ever to sail the blue—and then has the nerve to use your own words against you, mocking you, and in effect completely upstaging you.

She had been right, though. White sails were on the horizon. The Royal Navy had been looking for her, the Governor's daughter. The King's Men had come to their rescue. Well, to hers. That chilly Commodore only had one thing in mind for him: the gallows. But it hadn't worked out, fortunately. Or unfortunately. Depending on the way one looked at it. But that wasn't really the point.

The third time had been terrible. Just terrible. A storm had knocked his ship from its course, him from his ship, and when he'd woke he was looking up at those same bloody stars he remembered from so long ago. The only comfort at that point, since the silly girl had burned so much of the sparse vegetation, had been that the sea turtle, bless his heart, visited the island again. He had confessed to his shelled friend that he hadn't known whether or not the Pearl had survived the storm. Luckily she had, pulling into sight the very next day. He had been so happy to see Anamaria row that boat up to shore that he'd nearly kissed her. But he wasn't in the mood for a sound slap so he had resisted the urge, and told her instead of the turtle.

She had referred to him as being mentally unstable, raving about some damned turtle. Obviously the woman hadn't understood. The damned turtle was an old friend! And it had kept him company in the worst of times.

Now, the fourth time… well it was getting tedious, that was certain.

This time he wasn't alone. And this time, he was certain he wasn't escaping. Not because he thought Luck had grown weary with him. That wasn't the case. He was still Captain Jack Sparrow, after all. But the island wasn't his biggest adversary. His biggest adversary was the furious woman pacing up and down the small stretch of beach who was convinced that their current situation was entirely his fault.

Of course she was, he had to admit, correct in her convictions.

He had made a mistake. A very big mistake that had ended up costing both of them a great deal. And possibly, their lives. But it had been a mistake, and he felt bad enough about it, and with the frequency with which she brought it up he was quite certain he would never ever recover from the humiliation of it all.

"Sparrow!" She had no doubt been going on about the entire ordeal for the hundredth time, and had finished with the vehement pronunciation of his name. Her grey eyes flashed on him. "I should shoot you!"

He rolled his eyes and handed her his gun. "Be quick about it, love."

This seemed to infuriate her further. She growled and knocked him on the head with the hard steel of the weapon. "You are ridiculous!"

"And you seem to cling to an obstinate obsession of shooting me!" He rubbed at his head, scowling, wondering if grabbing her and dragging her across the sand would be more soothing than his fingers on his stricken scalp. He stared at her, studying her cold glare. Not likely. She would probably scream at him louder than she already was. "So go on then. Get it out of your system."

"I hate you!"

"Love, hate. Very fine line between the two."

Alice Witter didn't seem to recall the prior use of that particular line with the fondness that he did. She didn't even crack a smile. In fact, she pushed the barrel of the pistol at his forehead and snapped the hammer back.

He crossed his eyes to focus on the thing and blinked.

She pulled the trigger.

The flint cracked against the frizzen.

Jack arched a brow.

Alice frowned. She clicked the hammer back and pulled the trigger again. "Blast!" Clicksnap. Crack! Clicksnap. Crack!

Jack's brows snapped together. "Bit trigger happy, are we?"

"Shut up!"

He flicked his hands in the air in defense.

"Your gun—" clicksnapcrack "—does not work!"

"Pity."

"When I have the strength to shoot you," she growled, turning the weapon around to peer down its barrel, "when I'm mad enough to do it—the blasted gun won't work!"

Stupid woman! Jack sprang. Before she had the chance to shoot the thing at herself, he snatched it away and dropped it, grabbing her wrist and tugging her down to the sand. "You stupid woman." He pushed her hand down in the grit and glared at her. "Not to mention, if it wasn't for mishap, would-be murderer."

"I would prefer the term murderess."

"At the moment, love, I don't really care what you would prefer as much as I care what you wouldn't." Oh but he wanted to throttle her. How he wished for the carelessness of all of the men in the world who wouldn't blink at striking a woman. How he yearned for the wickedness of all the villains in the world that wouldn't mind grabbing her hair and ripping it from her skull. How he longed for the hate of all the demons in hell that wouldn't think twice about causing the woman tremendous pain and suffering. Oh if only he had any ounce of any of that. He grit his teeth and shoved her away. "You test my tolerance."

Jack listened to her feet retreat across the sand until the sound faded away. He closed his eyes. When he was satisfied with the quiet and sure that he was alone, he let them flutter open to study the solitude.

Sun beat down without mercy. He squinted and wiped a finger under his eye. It came away clean. He sighed. The kohl must have washed off in the tossing of the waves that had carried them ashore. Now, storm long passed, the water was calm. The soft ripples of the Caribbean Sea lapped at the beach, washing over it with the gentle touch of a mother to her babe.

Wondering at his own metaphor, he tugged at the knot at the back of his head and unwrapped the cotton. The gentle touch of a mother to her babe. The beads laced in his mane clunked as it swung free. Knotted locks thumped his shoulders. Loose hair brushed his cheeks as the wind caught and played with it. His own mother… She would have loved being able to let her own long hair down and feel it windswept across her face with no one to judge her for it. He squinted out at the horizon. She would have loved the free stretch of sea and sky. He glanced up at the heavens. I miss you.

Did she miss him?

Probably not, Jack thought as he reached back and loosed the plait of hair behind his head. On one hand he hoped that whatever it was that his mother was going about doing didn't involve fretting for the living. On the other, it was comforting to think that she was somehow watching over him. Maybe she could do both. Compromise was sometimes the easiest route to a peaceful state of mind, he decided, looking up at the sky again.

A rainbow arced high above.

It was a comforting sight. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. The colors dazzled against azure. Staring up at it until it faded away seemed to ease the rest of the tension that he had hoped to rid himself of.

Somehow he wasn't surprised to hear approaching footsteps sloughing sand.

"Jack."

He closed his eyes. "Yes?"

"I don't want to be alone."

"No one is ever really alone."

"I don't want to be without you."

Now that was surprising. He shot her a glance over his shoulder and then frowned out at the sea. Panic clawed at his insides. This wasn't exactly what he'd expected from Alice Witter. Insults, maybe. Spiteful words, probably. Cold stare, certainly. But not this—sudden heart-felt—oh, his stomach lurched. This just wasn't something he had anticipated. At all.

The woman had tried to kill him. With his own gun! She had had every intention of shooting him point blank in the head and it was only thanks to the wet gunpowder that he wasn't stone dead. She had, in effect, attempted to murder him. Tried to rid herself completely of him. So why, in the name of all that's bloody holy, was she saying that she didn't want to be without him? What gave her the right, first of all, to dare to say such a thing after daring to do such a thing moments before? What gave her the right, secondly, to dare to say such a thing at all? What gave her the right, finally, to dare to say such a thing to him when he least expected it?

Not that he had expected it at all.

"Well it seems your luck's on the rise then. I've no plans for travel at the present."

Yes, it was callous, even for him. But she had tried to kill him. What else could she expect from the man who had stared down the barrel of his own pistol as she'd tried to fire it at his head? Certainly she didn't expect ardent recitation of Shakespeare's florid love sonnets.

"Do you think they'll find us?"

He watched her settle down into the sand beside him, feeling, for the first time, wary of his doffed shirt, loose hair, and untouched eyes. It wasn't that she hadn't seen him such before. She had, few occasions though they might be. She had seen the scars hidden beneath his shirt. Touched them even. She had seen him with his hair down. Played with it even. And she had, herself, wiped away the kohl. But she hadn't seen him this way. She hadn't seen him on this island, this floating reminder of loss that seemed to forever come back to haunt him. As bitterly amusing it might be.

"Don't know."

"That means 'no', doesn't it?"

"It means 'No sé. Ik weet het niet.Non lo so. Wakaranai. Then katalaveno. Je ne sais pas.'" He squinted up at her in the sunlight, thanks to the blasted kohl gone missing, and shook his head. "I haven't the foggiest."

"Some comfort there."

"Comfort's quite a commodity here."

"Oh, I'm sure," she burst out, "that the sand and the sun and the sea turtles are quite accommodating!"

But her fury, now, was becoming amusing. A grin was crawling slowly across his face, and he felt it, lifting his cheeks and curling his mouth and mustache. And despite himself, he laughed. Damn it all anyway. He threw back his head and laughed and threw an arm around Alice Witter. Despite the sordid situation, he laughed with her, both of them chortling like fools. And then, all of the sudden, the rush lulled to a hush and he stared at her sobering face.

Those grey eyes were worried. And those white curls were limp, but they were still fine.

Jack reached up and raked them back off of her forehead, dragging his fingers through her tangled hair. "We will get off of this island, Miss Witter." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "On that I swear," he promised, pulling back to look her in the eye. The worry still there prompted his palm to cup her face whilst the other hand wandered in the air. "But now it's growing late and with late comes the dark and with dark. With dark we should sleep."

Alice Witter arched a brow. "Where?"

--- --- --- ------- () ------- --- --- ---

"Move over!"

Jack sighed. It was close-quarters but he had told her that before they'd painstakingly arranged themselves on the thing. The hammock that, he had explained, had suddenly been there, strung between two trees, last time he'd been stranded was big enough that they could sleep at opposite ends of it. But it had required much strategic maneuvering and he was not about to move and roll off because the woman was accustomed to her gargantuan bed.

"No room," he told her.

"Fine."

"G'night, love."

"Goodnight."

The night went silent save for the rolling tide at the beach's edge and the chirp of sand beetles as they scuttled out to play in the stuff. For all the horror of being estranged from those among the living, the uninhabited island was bliss at night. Peace was truly a commodity that it offered in abundance. He closed his eyes, more than ready for a good night's rest. It had been too long since he'd been able to sleep through the night. Surely he would sink into blessed oblivion now.

The hammock swayed…

The deck swayed beneath his feet as he leaned over to get a better look at the mythical creature.

Now that was a beautiful mermaid. Red hair everywhere and scantily clad—purple clamshells shielding her breasts from sight and little else but the glorious sparkling tailfin to her person. Big blue eyes gleamed through the mist gathered around the craggy rock she sat on and Jack wondered if perhaps she were surprised to see a pirate ship come so close to her refuge in the center of the sea. But she didn't seem to mind. The wide-eyed fishwoman's mouth opened wide and a sweet melody carried through the heavy air with an unnatural ease.

"What in the name of heaven is that?"

Gibbs had appeared at his side, slugging at his tankard of rum.

"That, Mr. Gibbs, is a lovely little mermaid."

"Fishwoman?" Gibbs narrowed his eyes. "Fishwomen are bad luck, Captain."

"What women aren't?" Jack leaned over the rail of the ship and tipped his tricorne hat at the scaly singing lass. "Good evening, m'lady."

The song stopped abruptly and the redheaded mermaid's eyes grew wider. "Oh. You can see me?"

He frowned. "Is that a problem?"

"Well you are human…" She leaned down on the rock, her arms flexing, her blue eyes glancing worriedly down at the water before settling uneasily on them. "Aren't you?"

Jack and Gibbs looked at each other.

"Sort of." Jack grinned and gave a bow. "Pirates, m'lady."

The mermaid gave a frightened gasp. "Pirates?!"

"Is that a problem?" Jack frowned. Well this was getting repetitious.

"No, it just sounded frightening! Do you have any thingamabobs?"

Jack and Gibbs exchanged looks.

"How many men are on board, Gibbs?"

"Twenty at the moment, Cap'n."

Jack smiled down at the scaly lass. "We've got twenty."

The small fishwoman was overjoyed. Her blue eyes gleamed in the moonlight, her mouth widening with a gasp. She clasped her hands together delightedly. "Oh that is so wonderful!"

Jack and Gibbs grinned at each other.

"I have twenty as well!"

They froze. Then their two heads swiveled to stare down at the mermaid in horror.

"I can show you!"

They screamed.

Jack's eyes popped open.

Grey eyes stared down at him.

He blinked.

"I can not sleep like that."

Jack opened his mouth to tell her that she was more than welcome to stay awake, but that she would have to do it alone. But the words stuck in his throat as she curled up beside him, laid her palm on his chest, and rested her head on his shoulder. He laid there for a moment, gazing wide-eyed up at the sky beyond the moonlit palms, gauging whether or not he should protest the obvious assumption that he would not be adverse to the new and very friendly sleeping arrangements. Not that he was. But that was hardly the point. The point was…

What was the point?

Jack squinted in the dark, trying to remember. "Hmm."

"Jack."

"Trying to pontificate in my head, love."

"I can imagine that's very risky business."

He scowled. "Thought you sought sleep's sweet embrace."

"I intend on it." Her palm slid across his chest. "But you're making noise."

"Making…" He couldn't help but watch her hand. "What?"

She traced the contour of his sternum with her fingernails. "Noise."

"Sorry about that."

"Good."

Not entirely sure he would ever locate that point he'd been searching for, Jack watched her palm come to rest over the place where he knew his heart resided. For a moment he cussed inwardly, considering that she might feel the blasted thing racing as fast as it was. But the sound of her even breathing quelled his fears, for she would be none the wiser. Alice had fallen asleep.

And so should he…

Jack let his eyes flutter shut and let himself quietly appreciate the warmth of the woman who snuggled against him. The Ice Queen of the Caribbean was not so cold as she slept. Cautiously he reached up to close his own hand over hers. "G'night, dove."

--- --- --- ------- () ------- --- --- ---

When he woke, the absence of both her warmth and the press of her soft body to his were most displeasing. He frowned. Blinking at the harsh sunlight that poured down into his eyes, he pushed a hand defensively at it. Finding it futile, he closed his eyes and stretched his weary muscles. Under the warm sun it felt quite good, and he sighed contentedly. Then he remembered where he was, why he was there, and who was privy to the same doom. He opened his eyes and shielded them with his palm as he sat up, rolling his head on his shoulders. To his immediate relief, he did not smell anything burning. To his immediate dismay, he remembered, quite clearly, that they had next to nothing to burn.

When he stood, he saw her sitting on the hill of sand overlooking the beach, her back to him. Her bare back… he noted, watching the white curls lick at her skin. Apparently, she had grown tired of wearing the thick shift on the heatsoaked island and doffed it without considering his well-being. As he drew closer to the woman he squinted at her rump and the familiar pattern covering it. Apparently she had also found a new use for his headscarf.

Jack didn't bother announcing his presence before he sat down in the sand next to her. But he did forgo the scathing remarks regarding her current state of dress when he noticed the look of misery on her face as she stared out to sea. "Morning Alice," he said instead, turning away before he had the chance to notice any more than her expression.

"Jack."

"Nice day."

"Yes."

"Hungry?"

"No."

"Thirsty?"

"A bit."

He untied the flask at his knee and held it out to her.

Alice looked down at it and up at him. "What's in it?"

"Freshwater."

She took it, uncorked it, and swigged a drink from it.

"There are empty bottles setup in the sand to catch rainwater."

"Clever." She handed the flask back.

He studied it, wondering if he should have filled it with alcohol instead.

"Thank you."

"Not a problem." Jack tried not to notice the woman's pretty ankles as she leaned back in the sand and stretched her long legs in front of her. Tried, and failed. Miserably. His gaze traveled up her lean legs to the supple skin of her thighs skirted by the scarf. His scarf. He tried not to notice how the way it fit her hips made him want to reach over and rip it off but that was futile as well. He had already noticed that. As well as the swell of belly above the thing, and the soft indentation of her navel above that. Finally, he managed to look away and he frowned, irritated. "Are you going to lie around like that all day, then?"

"Don't see why not."

"You don't see why not."

"No."

"No?"

"Jack Sparrow, I am on an uninhabited island in the Caribbean, miles away from polite society, not to mention every single living breathing human being whom requires my modesty." Alice turned her head to him and lifted her chin. "I do believe I have a certain unalienable right to prance about this godforsaken spit of land in naught but my skin if it is what I so desire."

"Why is it that I don't require your modesty?"

"Because you're—you." She stood, brushed the sand off herself, and started for the shade of the trees. "That's why."

Jack watched her back as she receded into the grove of palms. When she disappeared from view he turned to the sparkling water before him. He wished, desperately, for sails on the horizon. Black sails would be best, but near any would do at this point. Maybe not Norrington's sails—windy, as they were—but… some sort of canvas. He strapped the flask to his knee and stood, cupping a hand over his eyes to survey the horizon as if wishing held some sort of magical beckon call to oblivion's appeal. It did not. He found nothing but the blue and blue. Cussing the unfortunate, he walked to the water's edge and let it lick at his toes.

Damned woman, he thought, wading out into the water.

This was all her bloody fault to begin with. He had taken enough of the blame for it. She should hold as much, if not more, in her own hands. She had been the one who had started it. It wasn't his fault that he felt he should finish it afterwards. No, she should have known better than that. Captain Jack Sparrow did not leave things unfinished.

Alice Witter was a ridiculous woman. A ridiculous woman, with very pretty ankles, she was. He stopped and grit his teeth. Ankles or not, she was bloody ridiculous! He kicked the sand underfoot. Something bit back and he frowned down at the crab that scuttled angrily away. "Sorry, mate."

Jack was hip sunk in the water and wondering how Anamaria was treating his Pearl, when cold sea splashed his shoulders. He shivered and spun around, finding himself face to face with the woman he'd been cursing moments ago. Illwill faded and he reached for her, running his fingers down her jaw and tilting her chin up. A look at the storm in her eyes worried him, and he regarded her in earnest.

"Rope us a couple of sea turtles," she said. "I want to go home."

She hadn't said much the rest of the day. He'd roasted crabs to eat. She had thanked him for hers. The rest of the meal they ate in silence. He had taken a walk about the island, small as it was, at dusk, expecting her to follow. But she hadn't. He'd found her where he'd left her. Dressed, he was glad to note that she was, in her shift.

He sat down beside her and followed her gaze out to the setting sun.

"Are you haunted here?"

Jack closed his eyes, shutting out the pretty picture the golden orb made. When he opened them, he was looking at the pretty picture that she made under the peach-pink sky. "Here, there, and everywhere, love."

"Last night," she said, words barely a whisper, " I thought I heard what I thought I'd never hear again."

"What?"

"Nothing," she said, still gazing out at the sunset. "Nevermind."

"Unfortunately, there is no such thing as 'nevermind' on Sparrow Isle."

"Unfortunately for you, I've already named it Witter's Spit."

Jack turned the way she pointed and frowned at the wet sand. Sure enough, there she had staked her claim in it. Big letters proclaimed the place her own, spelled out its name that'd spilled from her lips. On an ordinary day, the petty part of it would have spurred a fight from him, but it was no ordinary day.

"You snooze, you lose."

"Aye…" The Pearl, the Pearl, the rum, the Pearl, his sanity… Jack ticked them off on his fingertips and nodded. "That seems to be a recurring theme here."