This is the beginning of an epic; ninth part.

Short. Sorry. Still love you all, and your fantastic reviews. Still own nothing.

Bonsoir!

And he was going to tell her, too.

He was. Until he saw them. Together. He winced slightly and took a silent step backwards; he folded himself into the shadows of the corner, under the first twist of the staircase. His head was throbbing painfully, like all the blood in his body was pooled there; it was as if he'd been hanging upside-down for far too long. And his heart. Again. It hurt like all hell, pounding and stinging at a near-unbearable level. Bugger all. He and her. Will and Elizabeth. They just bloody fit together. William Turner matched her. So much better than he ever could. He drew a shaking breath and leaned backwards; he let his head thud against the wall. And repeated the motion. Over and over, a rhythmic thumping against the ancient timbers. For some reason he couldn't explain it helped his headache. And it cleared his mind.

He knew he'd been wrong to think that anything would work between them. Seeing her like that, melting against William, had allowed him to mark the truth in it. And the truth was that he was insane to even imagine Elizabeth leaving her precious Will for the likes of him. Him, a dirty pirate. A renegade. William was a steady, a comfortable always. And as sure as Jack was that she would sail in his heart forever, -longer, he could swear-, Elizabeth would never see him as more than a lying, cheating, rat. A lowlife. A terrible man.

He felt tired, so very tired; but he couldn't move. He couldn't stop the rhythmic thumping. He couldn't close his eyes. All he could do was stand in the darkness, staring at nothing. Absolutely nothing. Alone with his thoughts. His miserable, defeated thoughts.

Bloody hell, he had been so close. So close to telling her. So goddamn close. He couldn't believe he'd almost done it. He couldn't believe he'd almost sliced open his heart for the girl. The girl who was so in love with William Turner. The girl who had kissed him and clearly felt nothing. The girl who'd kissed him to kill him, to save her love and her skin, and nothing more. He felt a cold shiver shake his entire body. It would have been horrible, if he'd done it. Messy and horrible. In a way he was grateful that he'd seen them like that: tangled up in each other. Happy. So happily together. His mind was grateful. His mind, his voice of reason, was grateful. But his heart was aching. Better get used to it. It's going to hurt for a long time. Probably the rest of your life, and then some. He let out a shuddering breath. Drink some rum.

He wanted to; maybe it would dull the pain. Maybe, if he was lucky, it would make it disappear. He certainly didn't have any issues with drinking until his death. Until the sea finally claimed him. He wanted to, but he still couldn't move. Hell. He let his eyes shift to the side. There is was: a squat bottle of crystal clear rum. Cuban, perhaps. He wasn't too fond of Spanish rum; the taste was far too dull. In Jack Sparrow's opinion, English rum was the only kind worth drinking. Spanish was too dull and French was far too sweet. English rum was deliciously full of flavor. Robust. And oh, how he wanted a drink. Any drink, even that tasteless Spanish bilge-water. He returned his gaze to the straight-ahead darkness. He wanted to; but he couldn't move.

Until he heard her voice.

"Jack Sparrow," she spoke quietly, laughing slightly. "Is there any particular reason why you're hiding in the corner?"