Author's note: I have to give a huge thank you to Jennifer Lynn Weston and Rokhal for being my first reviewers. It's those first reviews that mean the most, I think.

If you're having a less-than-spectacular day or just want to get happy, read Rokhal's Captain Turner and the Organ. This very insightful look at the Flying Dutchman's new captain will have you laughing in no time!

I also highly recommend Jennifer Lynn Weston's Revelations Between Friends. If you're in the mood for more of Jack's past and wish to observe his astounding proficiency in Latin, check it out right away!

Disclaimer: Donald Duck was getting really mad that I said POTC belongs to Disney and Mickey Mouse, so, in order to get the blasted bird to stop quacking in my ear all the time...

...POTC belongs to Disney and therefore Mickey Mouse AND Donald Duck, may he lose his tail feathers.

-ow sorry! I didn't mean it, Donald, I take it back! ow!-

Chapter 2

Beckett's coat was flawless cream silk; his waistcoat glimmering chocolate satin. His wig with its widow's peak was related to a Persian cat; the curls above his ears would make a lady cry. His cravat was white enough to make snow feel inadequate; his dark hose a second skin delivered by the god of textiles. (Textopheus?) Somehow, Beckett toed the line between a dandy and a parson, a mixture of the pretentious and the drab, fading into the woodwork and catching attention at the same time.

While doing all this, he also managed to lounge against a scarred table and point a pistol at Jack's noggin. A schoolmarm would have been proud of how disparagingly he tut-tut-tutted. "Do come in, Mr. Sparrow."

"Captain," Jack growled.

Beckett just smirked and came to the doorway. "I seem to recall your ship being headed for the bottom of the sea, taking your status with her. Now do as you're told, pirate, or your weasly black guts will hit the unfortunate end of the corridor behind you. That's twenty feet your innards will be airborne, Sparrow."

"Weasly black guts," Jack raised his eyebrows uselessly at the floor. "I like it." He moved into the doorway.

Oho- so this was where the rancid meals served to prisoners came from. There was even a residual smell of pickled cabbage and meal. A rectangular room big enough to fit the impressive table, this dim kitchen had a mysterious cracked door in the back and three huge barrels in a far corner. Next to the cracked door was sizeable woodpile, which sat complacently next to the fireplace gaping along the wall on the right. No light came from the black fireplace, which had an empty pot hook. Two lanterns, one on a barrel and the other near the fireplace, made Beckett's pistol glitter.

Smiling politely, Beckett followed Jack to the end of the table. "Do sit down." There was a light in his hazel eyes that made the hair on Jack's neck stand up. He turned and heaved himself onto the table, then slouched facing the doorway, eyes on his wrist. It was stinging more and more fiercely.

"I expect our little guard friends will be along shortly," Beckett circled to Jack's side, "if they can find their way back up here. You and I are going to stay here, just like this, until they do. And then I am going to have you hung. Either that, or donate you to the Royal Zoo."

"I like gorillas," Jack said listlessly. "Nice manners."

"And this is where your fondness for the brutes has gotten you."

Jack lifted burning eyes. "Is that all those men'n'women are to you? Animals? Y'can't just rip people from their homes, stuff'em in hellish ships, n'then force'em to work for those who ain't their betters. They're human beings, mate, wit' souls. But you wouldn't understand wot it is t'have a soul, would you?"

"My," Beckett said with lazy sarcasm, "what compassionate passion. And here I thought you freed a thousand pounds' worth of African flesh just to spite me."

"Well, that too."

"Oh Jack, why don't I just shoot you now? Then I'll have rid myself of the Wicked Wench and her pansy captain in one day."

Jack's fingers twitched. "The Wench never did anything t'you."

"Ah but she did, Jack."

"Aye. She became a symbol of insolence an' rebellion. Of pirates. That's why yer gonna see her again, along wif many more like her."

"I highly doubt it. When I'm finished, it will take an act beyond human ability to bring either of you back."

The corner of Jack's mouth lifted in a rakish half-grin. "That it will."

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "You know, I'm familiar with a man who collects corpses. How would you like to be stuffed, Sparrow? Put on a stand in a grand hall? Yes," the table trembled as Beckett shifted his weight, gaze averted, "it is grisly." He raised his eyes. The pistol muzzle nudged aside an orange bead in Jack's hair and came to rest on the pirate's jaw. "Yet so deliciously ironic."

"Y'could shoot me now," Jack said softly to the doorway. "But there be no fun in that for either of us, eh mate?"

The icy muzzle lifted. Slowly, Beckett moved in front of Jack, pistol aimed between the pirate's eyebrows. His head barely cleared Jack's, but there was nothing vertically challenged about the death in his face. "I'm not your mate." His voice went from impatience to flawless calm. "And you're wrong about the fun."

Khol-lined brown eyes made velvet by the lamplight met flat green-gold eyes, and for an everlasting second each man remained in his place; the victim, the vulture. One squirmed and one gloried.

Then Jack's gaze slid to the side. "D'you hear that?"

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Th'gossiping biddies in Madame Chester's London salon 'pproximately one week from now. Gossiping 'bout Agent Beckett's lack of self-control." Jack's voice squeaked into a British falsetto. "'He simply blew the prisoner's head off. He should've sent the rat to the gallows as an example to all the horrid little criminals running 'round with dirt under their nails. But nooo.'" He shuddered at an invisible listener, batting his eyelids.

Observe how his lashes magically seem longer. (And how Beckett's face shows sickened alarm.)

"'I say, that is a bad sign, Regina.'" Jack flipped one hand prettily. "'He's becoming impulsive. His enemies will take advantage of this. What say you, young and beautiful Lady Rowe?'"

At the lady's name, color rose to Beckett's cheeks. "You are an escaped prisoner," he spat. "According to procedure, I'm allowed to blast your cursed brains from here to Mumbai."

"Pr'cedure." The corners of Jack's mouth deepened. "Ah, how Brits love their pr'cedures. Pr'cedures make all their problems disappear. In an ambiguous way, 'procedures' define the British, don't they? Now. I meself've already been 'entered' into a 'procedure.'" He lifted his branded wrist. "An'this procedure, as it happens, hasn't been seen through its end."

There was the tiniest furrowing of Beckett's brow. An average man would have missed it. Jack didn't.

"...This pr'cedure being Brand-the-Rat-then-Hang-Him-by-His-Scrawny-Neck. As y'can see, I've been branded, hurrah. But I'm not at the end of a noose yet." Jack leaned forward, voice quieting. "If y'shoot me now, you'll be breaking off Brand-the-Rat-then-Hang-Him-by-His-Scrawny-Neck and implementing Shoot-the-Scrawny-Rat-For-No-Reason...just 'cause it's convenient for your emotional state. In doing so, you'd violate the very essence of stolid ole England. You'd b'tray every stolid citizen, every stolid blade of grass, every stolid pill bug. Y'think no one'd notice? Oh, and," he straightened, "you'd also expose yerself as th'emotional, impetuous weakling you are. Lady Rowe'll fall for'y'then, I'm sure."

Beckett's finger quivered on the trigger. "But, to kill whatever devil speaks through you might be worth it."

"Might."

Beckett glared ferociously. Jack's mustache lifted in a smirk. "You're prob'ly wond'ring," the pirate began, "how I can t'know 'bout you an'Lady Rowe-"

"I am not!" Beckett exploded. Then he blinked and regained a majority of his icy composure. "If you wish to be hanged, Sparrow, hanged you shall be. But I will release the trapdoor beneath your feet. And I will do it ever so slowly."

"Whatever floats yer boat," Jack murmured.

"You will eat your words."

"Yum," said Jack.

The corridor behind Beckett was silent as the grave.

Jack offered to call for the guards and got a terse "Shut it." He gestured submissively, ducking his head and making his beads clack. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on Beckett's upper lip. I'd say his arm is killing him right now.

It became very quiet. Neither man met the other's eyes. It was going to be a long wait.

Jack was very bad a waiting. As a rule, he avoided cliché methods of distraction, but he made an exception for Beckett, glancing over the agent's shoulder and widening his eyes in alarm. Beckett was too smart for this. His eyelids began to lower smugly and in that instant Jack kicked. His toe slammed into Beckett's forearm and the pistol...

Stayed in Beckett's hand. And sent a bullet into the wood ceiling.

I really didn't want to write that, but I cannot tell a lie.

The thunder of the pistol shot ringing in his ears, Jack made a beeline for the door. Though shocked, Beckett managed to reel into Jack's way. Jack was forced to grab Beckett by the shoulders in an attempt to simply remove him. Beckett's silk coat slipped right out of Jack's hands, piratical balance was lost, and Jack's forehead hit the door jamb.

In one fluid motion the pirate ducked and came up with a pistol aimed at Beckett. Silence fell again as the agent froze, wondering where Jack had managed to conceal the firearm. Then he looked at his empty hands, and realized the tables had turned.

"Where's ol'Mercer when y'need him, aye?" Jack said roughly. The danger in his eyes was compromised by the comical way he kept wrinkling his bruised forehead.

The gaze Beckett raised was wide yet resolute. He knew Jack's gold-studded grin was the last thing he'd see. He could take it.

But perhaps he wouldn't have to.

There was shouting somewhere, and the dull thud of approaching footsteps. Clearly, you can't use a firearm and go unnoticed.

Jack's eyes flicked to the ceiling in annoyance, but when they came back to Beckett they were razor-sharp. If Beckett was found in a pool of blood, the entire island would be locked down. Of course, Jack was Captain Jack Sparrow and that meant he could get out of anything. It also meant he was lazy. He didn't want to end up using spoons to paddle a log into the sunset because all other vessels were trapped under British hysteria.

So he asked, "Y'want to live an'continue the good fight? 'Cause I'm ready t'take it all 'way from you."

Running footsteps grew louder.

Beckett's eyes darted between Jack and the door. "Yes," he rasped.

Jack grabbed Beckett by his cravat and dragged him over to the wood pile. Jack sat on the wood pile, tucking up his legs. He pulled Beckett in front of him, turned him to face the doorway, and pushed the pistol into his back. "Then lie yer way outta this. An' keep yer hands where I c'n see 'em."

Beckett wiped his palms on his linen breeches. Then raw noise of three arriving guards made both men stiffen. The guards moved apart, muskets up. Beckett spread his arms.

"Sir!" the oldest exclaimed. "We 'eard a shot. Wot is..." He scooted to see behind Beckett. Jack pressed the pistol harder into Beckett's back.

The agent shifted to block the man's view. "Stay back!" his voice cracked once. "You're interrupting an interrogation. Your reason had better be good."

"Sir?" The leader lowered his musket, eyes wide. His comrades edged closer to him. "We heard a shot."

"You heard a shot."

Jack wished he could make his words drip with such disgusted malice.

"A...aye, sir. We all did. Wot with the escaped prisoner an' all..."

Frigid silence.

"If I may be so bold, sir...what are you doing?"

"I already told you. I'm interrogating a prisoner."

"Sir? In a kitchen?"

"Are you saying," Beckett bit out, "that I don't have the right to interrogate whoever I want wherever I want, whenever I want?"

"Nay, I-"

"When were you given the right to question me, guard?"

"N-never! But sir," the guard rallied, "somethin' ain't right."

"You're damned correct something isn't right here, and it's you destroying every painstaking bit of progress I've made! Get out! Go and look for that blasted prisoner before I write up this entire fort and every poxy man in it! Get out!"

Mumbling, the unfortunate trio scuttled out. Soon silence fell again. Beckett breathed hard, clenching his fists.

Grinning from ear to ear, Jack clambered off the woodpile. "Beckie, I'm at a loss for words." He circled around and took in Beckett's thunderous expression with delight. Then he frowned and pulled a splinter out of the seat of his breeches.

"Do whatever you're going to bloody do, Sparrow," Beckett snarled.

Jack airily threw the splinter away, then scratched the back of his neck. Then he wiped his nose. "Well."

Beckett waited, got impatient, then exploded. "When I finally get you I am going to make you regret your strumpet of a mother ever whelped you! I-"

Jack flapped his hand. "Yes, yes, yes. Someday, Beckie, you're gonna have t'think of somethin' new t'say to me, or I'll refuse to talk t'you anymore."

"Don't call me Beckie," Beckett growled, baring his teeth.

Jack simpered. "You're so endearing when you're angry."

Beckett's face contorted. In a flash he grabbed Jack's wrist, hand closing over festering brand.

Jack recoiled, the color draining from his face. The pistol hit the floor. Beckett smiled in victory and stooped for the pistol. In doing so, he twisted Jack's tortured skin.

Beckett didn't know what hit him. For those of us who know what a linebacker is, it's easy to understand why. Shoulder down, head tucked, Jack slammed into Beckett's midsection like a cannon ball. Every bit of air left Beckett's body in one oof as he flew back into the pantry and landed on his tail bone. His head hit a crate and his eyes rolled back in his head.

The pantry door hit the shelves then swung mostly closed. The pistol skittered into the fireplace, disappearing into ash.

Sobbing for breath, Jack went to hands and knees beside Beckett. His branded arm refused to support him and he crashed to the floor. Rocking, curling, he tried to ride out an agony he hadn't thought existed. Bright flashes filled his vision and when he tasted blood he knew he was biting his lip too hard. The pain wouldn't let him black out, and that's what he wanted most. He couldn't move, couldn't think.

His cheeks were wet.

Through the roaring in his ears, he heard footsteps enter the kitchen. He felt feverish; he was probably imagining...

The footsteps paused. "Sir?"

Mercer.

Jack tried to quiet his breathing, and then stopped bothering. He didn't care. He wished Mercer would just come in and shoot him already.

"Sir," there came a tapping sound, "are you there?"

A mew inches from Jack's ear made him jump. He felt a tiny breeze on his earlobe as a cat sniffed him. Cursing blackly in his mind because his mouth didn't work, he jerked his head. The breeze stopped; he heard a thump and a hiss.

"Sir..." the voice was singsong.

A light pattering went around his head, then out of the pantry. Jack felt agony strangle him again, but managed to shoot Doghearted barnacle after the cat before he couldn't think anymore.

Jack didn't like cats.

"Sir Furry the cat!" came the voice, fainter now. "King among fe-lines! There he be! Time for din-din…there you are. Eat up, laddie. Your Da's gotta lock this place up to keep the hungry guards out. What with the gentry givin' us all less to eat, everyone's snitchin'." Heavy steps approached the pantry. "Ev'ryone 'cept your Da." Keys jingled. "I'm no sneak."

Not Mercer. He's not Mercer. He's-

Despair had never had much success with Jack Sparrow. But this time, when it pounced, Jack's world went black.

Now Mickey AND Donald say 'Leave a review!' You keep the reviews coming, and I'll let Jack wake up!