2.

Elizabeth left no time to waste, making the first swinging attack. Jack instantly blocked.

"Vigorous but obvious," Jack observed.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and attacked again, a series of three strikes.

"A trilogy. Perfect number for a book series but this is life not a fairytale, love."

Elizabeth's sword nearly knocked Jack's from his hands.

"Thank goodness. The author so often ruins them after the third," she sighed.

Jack made his first offensive strike, nearly knocking Elizabeth off-balance.

"But sometimes there's more to the story worth telling. If done right."

Jack cut the air quick, and Elizabeth shielded just in time but gasped when he drew her close by the waist again, their swords resting in an "X" at both of their throats.

"And you think you could dream up a better ending?"

"I know it like I know the seas. That is to say, I'm certain of it." He smiled like a child.

"I'm fond of dreams myself, but they serve no one if stuck in your head," she whispered, her lips nearly touching his as she knocked his sword out of place by kneeing his elbow, catching his sword in her left hand. "Ladies and gentlemen, you will all remember this as the day Captain Jack Sparrow became—Stowaway Jack Sparrow."

"I can't be a stowaway—on land," he said, a panic in his wide eyes that amused Elizabeth. Jack sunk to the floor, cross-legged and crossing his arms before a thoughtful look appeared on his face. "Parlay?"

Elizabeth slowly shook her head at him, her nose scrunched up in a genuine smile as Jack completely sprawled out on the floor like a starfish.

"I'm done for." Jack sighed, eyes closed. "Never saw myself going out like this…" Jack sighed again, peeking one open after the appropriate amount of pause for dramatic effect.

"Stop with the theatrics." Elizabeth returned the swords behind her bookcase and turned to find Jack with his head resting in his hands and elbows on his knees, looking utterly helpless.

"Can I at least have a tour of my new cell?"

Elizabeth hooked her arms underneath Jack's and pulled him up, regretfully so. "Ugh, only if you agree to a bath immediately after."

"Bath?"

"You already saw yourself to the kitchen and now you're well acquainted with the drawing room, having lost a duel there. There's not much else... A bathroom, for which I hope you become more familiar with cleanliness during your stay." Elizabeth swung open the door and passed to the next room. "My bedroom which I hope you don't look about too much in, and…"

Jack made to open the last door in a set of three.

"Jack—"

He took in the nearly bare room, save for a crib in the corner and a framed picture above it of a charming ship sailing on a clear day. Jack took a few steps into the room then turned to Elizabeth for explanation.

"So, you actually are with child?"

"No. The crib is from the governor. They took their daughter's things into the new place, but she outgrew the crib. She's a darling little thing, almost walking by herself now and everything."

"And the illustration? The governor's as well?"

Elizabeth felt her throat close up then cleared it, sweeping hair out of her face. "I was once." She laughed humorlessly, unable to look at Jack as she spoke. "With child. Grief has a way of stealing everything from us at once."

Jack shifted his weight from foot to foot, not knowing quite what to say. "Elizabeth..."

She looked at the doorframe. She refused to step foot into the room the day after she bled. She refused to even open the door. She refused to take the illustration she so carefully painted down, to take down the last bit of hope she had, the last echo of Will. Elizabeth ducked her head and stepped into the spare room, then past Jack, resting her hands on the edge of the crib.

"A beggar woman stopped me on the street on my way to the market. She insisted she could tell me my fortune if I spared some change. I told her to take the change and keep the fortune because there was nothing good left for me in this life. I really felt that way, back then." Elizabeth turned to Jack, leaning her back against the crib. "She told me that wasn't true. 'A child is the best fortune a person can have.' She insisted I'd bear a child—a boy. 'A boy with deep brown eyes, a love for adventure, and a crowing laugh that could stretch towns away,' she said. I didn't believe her at the time." Elizabeth lips pulled into a small smile and her hands rested against her stomach, searching, as if it was possible to touch a memory. "Then, well, when I started getting seasick every morning on land, I remembered the beggar woman's words. She was right. Will and I were to have a son. But as with most fleeting joys in life, this one also passed."

"A boy ought to have his father," Jack said, trying to supply something to ease her mind. "Not that you wouldn't have raised him well alone, I just mean to say… a boy ought to have his father."

Elizabeth watched Jack stare not at but into the painting.

"You said you didn't believe in good, back then," he broke the silence. "And now? Do you believe in good again?"

"Yes," Elizabeth replied, meeting his eyes and standing tall once again. "Because you came back," she admitted in a whisper. Elizabeth took a shallow breath and shut her eyes. "Alright. Before I go and subject you to a crying fit again,"—her eyes blinked open—"let me gather a few things for you. A few of the governor's clothes were left behind. They're sure to be big on you but will do just fine. You'll only have to wear them long enough to give yours a wash—"

"Wash?"

Jack followed Elizabeth out of the nursery, and he took a final look at the framed illustration before shutting the door. He lingered for a moment then rushed to follow Elizabeth into her room. Jack paused, feeling almost as if he shouldn't breathe while standing there. Elizabeth made the room so very her own. He was surrounded by her essence—practical, elegant, beautiful. He eventually had to breathe, but he felt almost as he did when a woman wore too much perfume. He could not help but succumb every time, breathe her in, but stay a hair on edge, wondering what it is about the woman she hoped to hide under layers of lavender or vanilla.

"And this one if we have to go out to the market for something—we'll be sure to disguise you well of course—and this one if you ever want to help with Sparrow in the stables—and these are just the softest night clothes… What?" Elizabeth paused, watching Jack shake his head at her, unable to help his closed-mouth smile. He never once saw Elizabeth so soft.

"I'm not only a stowaway, but an overgrown doll." Jack placed himself beside Elizabeth, and he could feel the excitement radiating off of her at the opportunities that came from housing a guest. "Is this how you tricked all of the bigwigs into believing you aren't a pirate? Feigning a love for fashion and fabrics instead of swashbuckling and the sea?"

"I pinned my hair up again and wore corsets and petticoats and dresses again and painted on rouge and pink smiles again—and they were none the wiser. They think I finally came around, done with pirates, that I was simply away studying in Italy to escape Beckett's warrant."

She spoke for a length of time in Italian then paused, looking at Jack expectantly.

"Ah, um… of course it is," Jack answered when he realized Elizabeth wouldn't go on without an answer. Elizabeth hid a laugh behind her hand, appearing demurer than ever. Jack wasn't sure what to make of this different mask of hers. He wasn't sure if he preferred her blushing and dressing him or countering his attacks and pressing a sword against his throat. Luckily, he didn't have to pick. And luckily, he had no idea what she said about him in Italian—or unluckily. He wasn't quite sure. He never was with her.

Elizabeth went on sorting through the governor's old clothes, so Jack made himself comfortable on the floor, leaning against her gold bedframe. He began twisting at his hair, reshaping some of the dreadlocks which were starting to unravel. Jack did so second-nature and in such a trance that when he glanced over at Elizabeth, he started at her deep gaze.

"What?"

"The plait at the back, do you need help with it?"

"If it's as undone as the rest of the mop, yes," he muttered, still working.

Elizabeth picked up the brush from her bedside table then slid down the plush duvet cover. At first, Elizabeth sat perched atop the back of her legs as she unbraided Jack's hair, but choosing comfort over decorum, she swung her legs on either side of Jack who hummed, surprised. Jack's right hand drew back wrapping around the back of her leg to check if it was truly there. He instantly snapped his hand away, returning to his hair. Elizabeth drew her lip into her mouth, already missing the feeling of Jack's touch right at the hinge of the back of her knee.

Elizabeth ran the brush through Jack's hair, combing through knots, sand, and memories of sea breeze. She wondered when Jack last experienced this kind of maintenance and her thoughts supplied, probably around another woman. As Elizabeth brushed, she nearly laughed at the thought of how she always dreamt of combing through her child's hair one day, but of course she wasn't presented a child, but instead, Jack.

"What's on your mind, Swann?" Jack asked her in a low voice, twisting a new section of hair. "Elizabeth," he corrected, remembering her marriage.

"How this happened." Elizabeth gathered Jack's hair as she spoke, deciding not to share her heart. Regardless, she was genuinely curious to know.

"Aye." Elizabeth heard a smile in Jack's voice. "I was nineteen. Met a few vagabond women, lovely musicians, here in the Caribbean of course. After playing their improvisations and, well, you can imagine what else—they asked me what I thought of their hair. Their hair was beautiful, all three of them, and I told them so. One asked if they should make mine like theirs. I said, 'Alright.' So, there I was, three gorgeously tan women, massaging and threading and twisting and braiding—in a hot spring. It was," Jack sighed, "probably one of the reasons why I love the heat so much today."

Elizabeth brushed through a particularly stubborn knot and Jack winced but continued as if he hadn't.

"I thought I was a man before that night, but no, that was the night—thee night—I started to become the man I was intended to be… Tell you the truth, I don't remember much of it between my drink and their herb and all the rest, but I know it was remarkable. I feel the memory. Some memories are just a feeling. I'm sure you know what I mean, Swann—Lizzie."

Elizabeth felt heat pool between her legs, remembering the cave with Will the day he left at sea. Then, a further memory, nearly kissing Jack on The Black Pearl. Then a memory that fell somewhere in-between the two in terms of feeling, of actually kissing Jack on the Pearl. Before she allowed herself to indulge in the thought of both men, she cleared her throat and returned her focus to brushing Jack's dark hair.

"You can call me Swann," she relented. "If it's easier for you."

"Alright." She thought she heard the sound of a smile again in those two quiet syllables.

"And the plait?" Elizabeth asked. "The vagabond women too?"

"No," Jack said flatly. Then quickly—"A mermaid."

"A mermaid?"

"Aye. Mermaid."

She sensed he was lying. There was no elaborate retelling to relive the story, just waving off the question with a simple and frank answer. Jack was anything but simple and frank. It was more believable Jack shagged three vagabond women in a hot spring than have his hair braided by a mermaid. Elizabeth wondered who truly crafted the original braid. She couldn't imagine Jack would let just any woman work on the back of his head with the chance to cross him so easily. He must have grown to trust the woman, in a way. Elizabeth wondered what her name was, if she was still alive, or cursed—

"Oi! Would you watch it with that thing?" Jack jerked forward when the brush caught in another knot.

"Sit still or I'll never get it out," she insisted as Jack repeatedly muttered "bugger."

Once untangled, Elizabeth brushed the section of hair a few more times for good measure. She was seeing a side of him that, yes, other women surely saw before, but she hadn't yet. She started to section the hair, braiding slowly, gently.

"What was her name?"

"Who?"

"The mermaid."

"Tia Dalma told me to not speak the names of the dead unless you want them showing up at your door. We do not want that woman showing up at your door, trust me, Swann."

Elizabeth continued braiding. She would ask him about it later. She would have the best luck when he was drunk. They had the time, she decided. Jack witnessed her first heartbreak, created it even, although one could argue it was for the best. She would eventually get him to tell his.

"Done." Elizabeth started gathering Jack's hair out of her brush. "Now, I'll go draw you that bath—"

"Elizabeth, I am a filthy, filthy man," he said in weak protest, his voice low.

"Then a bath will help. The surface at least," she said, bumping her knees against his shoulders before rising to prepare the bath. She would deny any claim that she swayed her hips more than usual on her way out.