A/N: Thank you so much to Jennifer Lynn Weston and Pirate Trixi for their reviews! They mean a lot to me - I can't say how much.

Disclaimer: So here's what happened. Again following the advice of Jennifer Lynn Weston, I invited every animated character created in the history of Disney over to my house, saying we would "discuss" who POTC belongs to. The arguing started when Grumpy met Tarzan, and soon every single character was arguing with another. I snuck out and it is mercifully quiet here. With relief I state: Pirates of the Caribbean belongs to Disney.

"Post meridiem" means "pm."

Chapter 4

Silence.

Then Jack made a mad crawl for the door. He realized he wasn't up for it when the floor jumped out of nowhere and smacked him in the face. Sprawled, he made a noise like a rhinoceros mooing.

Beckett gazed malevolently down on Jack, the candle making a caricature of his pale face. His extra-poofy wig was mussed, with one of the curls sproinging straight out above his ear. He had a goose-egg on the back of his head and his coat sleeve was half ripped at the shoulder. But he hadn't lost his deadly aplomb.

"You've impeccable timing." He set the candle down and freed a watch fob from his waistcoat pocket. He turned its face to the candlelight. "It is now eight thirty-seven post meridiem. The kitchen out there is completely deserted and will remain so until six-thirty tomorrow." With a snap that made Jack jump, Beckett closed his watch and shoved it back into its place. "I would consider pounding on the door, but the kitchen itself has been locked from the corridor. We're completely cut off. It would be a waste of effort."

The world turned expectantly to Jack Sparrow for his reaction.

Staring at the crack under the door, which was dreadfully dark, he made a noise like a kitten neighing. An awkward silence followed, because nobody knew that sort of noise was possible.

"The guards are on fifteen-minute circuits," Beckett finally continued. "Even if we pounded on the door and they heard it, they'd dismiss it as some prisoner making a fuss."

So abruptly that Beckett tensed to throw his carrot, Jack flipped over. He scuttled back against the door and then brought his knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them. As he expected, his world began spinning like a top.

Beckett smirked his thin lips. "You look awful. That disgusting black lining around your eyes is halfway down your cheeks – what, did you cry, Jack?"

No response.

"Try not to puke for both our sakes, Jack. We've ten hours to spend in here together."

At the ten hours Jack's head slowly lifted. He stared at Beckettt dully for one full minute, face sagging. Then he began to scan the shelves desperately. "Bring that candle over."

"Why?"

"I 'magine Cook has a stash of some sorta liquor in here." Jack slowly turned to get on his knees. "Maybe rum."

Beckett stared. Jack was absentmindedly wiggling his fingers. Good Gog, the man never stopped twitching!

Then Beckett realized what Jack had said. He slid off the barrel, squeezing the carrot, which was slippery with sweat. "No," he said through clenched teeth, "you are not going to look for rum. You are going think of a way out of here. You got us in, you get us out."

Beckett wasn't shouting. Beckett never shouted. But his voice rose and his enunciation snapped words into the ear like hammer blows. Jack, on his knees in front of a shelf, turned with half his face scrunched. "So says the tiny man wif a carrot, who, might I add, got himself an' meself into this mess by grabbing the wrist of meself, which, might I also add, had a brand on it. Said brand being inflicted by you."

"Is it truly impossible for you to talk like a homo sapien?" Beckett demanded with sudden peevishness.

"A wot?" Jack gave Beckett a smile from under his brows. "I'm an unlearned bilge rat, mate. Me an' you-there's nothin' homo-logous about us. If we was tree sap, y'wouldn't see us sapien' from th' same tree."

Nope, I didn't understand that, either. Sorry.

Jack pulled out a tin and peered inside. With a grimace he tossed it behind him.

Beckett rolled his eyes, and then shook his head. "No. No. We were talking about how you're going to find a way out of here. Or else I'll set your hair on fire."

Jack looked at Beckett, who had candle flames reflected in his eyes. "Now there's the obvious threat for this situation, seein' as you're the one with fire and a personality I can easily see approachin' a pyromaniac's. Congratulations, you c'n think up the obvious."

He stuck his head in between two cauldrons. "Hello?" It echoed, "Hello...hello...hello..."

Thwack on Jack's shoulder.

He pulled his head back out, frowning, lower lip stretched. He glanced at the floor.

A carrot, ringed with sweaty mud, lay on the floor. Jack looked at Beckett. The man was standing carrot-less, his eyes squinted up in rage.

"Cut the bilge and forget your blasted rum. The only thing you're good for is thinking of bloody ways to get out of things and you had better start, or your usefulness will be at an end." He reached behind him and brought out the cup with the candle. "I am the one with the fire, Sparrow, and I'd love to singe your filthy wings."

"My, that was almost poetic," Jack said wryly, coming to his feet. Then the humor vanished and Beckett got the full force of one of Jack Sparrow's glare-stares. "But seein' as you're the one what thought t'turn me into a slimy slaver, therefore beginnin' this whole cataclysm in th'first place, I vote you use whatever brains're hiding under that derisory wig an' get yerself out. Savvy?" Jack's eyes crinkled, but not like he was going to smile. "I'm gonna look for rum." He began to dig around some bowls.

"Like bloody hell you are."

"Like pristine heaven I is."

Carrying the candle, Beckett stalked toward Jack, who grabbed a platter for protection and slinked back. He hit the door and frowned from behind his shield at Beckett, who stopped with his nose six inches from the platter. The two men peered at each other. The flickering red candlelight lit Beckett's face from below, turning him into a ghoulish cherub.

"You're so calm, Jack," said Beckett quietly. "It's as if you don't comprehend the situation at all."

"I've discovered th'secret of blissful ignore-ance, mate." Jack's voice sounded tinny and hollow.

Beckett's eyes revealed his smirk. "You've got one problem, Jack. You can't ignore me."

Jack frowned and looked to the right.

"Oh, and there is no rum in here, Jack. I already looked."

Jack's eyes snapped back to Beckett's. "Wot?"

"It was the first thing that came to my mind when I woke up," Beckett said smugly. "You were still swooning."

Jack's knuckles were white on the platter. "You're makin' that up, y'hedge pig."

"Sadly, no. Jack, it truly pains me to tell you…we think the same way."

Jack eyes went unfocused in despair. It wasn't possible. How could Beckett think like him? The cold-blooded lizard thought like him. He thought like a cold-blooded lizard!

Beckett almost laughed at Jack's miserable eyes until they changed, the lax liquid fading into a black fierceness that did not bode well. Sure enough, Jack smacked Beckett in the face with the platter- thonk. Shocked, Beckett simply toppled over, the cup flying from his hand…

...and the burning candle flying from the cup.

"Bugger!" Jack lunged for the candle but ended up flipping it so it landed on a flour bag. Instant combustion. Jack threw himself at the flames that began licking over the cheap hemp, but drew back when his wrist yelped a warning. He didn't want more burns.

Beckett pressed himself to the barrels and paused his cursing to exclaim, "What are you doing? Put it out!"

"But why?" The growing flames lit Jack's angular face like a devil's. "Have you ever considered burning t'death? It'll make y'so much more glamorous to' the gossips, mate."

Beckett gaped, utterly aghast.

Fading behind a scrim of smoke, Jack grinned wickedly, and then began to stomp on the flames. Flour rose around his knees, flickering orange. The smell of burnt leather joined all the other charred scents.

Then, with the extinguishing of the last flame, everything simply disappeared into blackness.

Between horrendous coughs, Beckett snarled, "You b------!"

Huddling on the powdery floor, Jack coughed and laughed at the same time. It sounded like a dying horse. "The look…on yer face!"

"You'll…pay…"

"That just ain't Christian, mate."

"Christianity doesn't even touch…the likes of you."

"You were the one what...lit the candle in the first place. Y'keep blaming me fer every mistake y'make an' I'm telling you, mate...a scapegoat c'n only handle so much."

"You look like a goat, you rat."

"So now I'm a goat and a rat."

"Just suffocate already."

"You're welcome fer saving yer life."

Something slammed into the door above Jack and fell kerplop on his leg. What now? Irritably, Jack twisted, trailing his hair over his brand, which made him curse. Of course, he couldn't see a thing.

Wham. Something hard hit him on the temple.

"That sounded promising," Beckett's venomous voice issued from the darkness. "Do you mind telling me where it hit you?"

A spear of pain was jabbing Jack behind his eyes as he grabbed the projectile. It was roundish, bumpy, and gritty…he sniffed it, dug a fingernail into it.

Potato. The beckettum villainum had hit him with a solanum tuberosum. "I do mind!" Jack rose to his hands and knees and hurled it back. It hit the wall, but an instant later another potato smacked Jack in the chest. Hard. After all, their throws couldn't be further than eight feet.

It was in this instant that Jack lost it.

Jack was good at making mental lists. He was so good; it was a point of personal pride. Indeed, in one of his less-lucid moments, he had considered becoming a Pirate Loot Inventory-Taker. It was a fool-proof plan because 1) He would be aiding others which would 2) get him on the good sides of saints wandering around, and 3) allow much pilfering of the loot inventoried. But he'd been young and naïve back then, and...he doesn't go beyond this point in the story because it embarrasses him too much.

But Jack had been working on the Mother of All Lists for a while. This is sort of what it looks like. (Items 6-21 are very short because they were made up mostly of dirty words which we had to cut out to understand.)

Why Captain Jack Sparrow is Allowed to Hold a Grudge Against the World

1. Fate sets Jack up for heartbreak by giving him lovely ship called Wicked Wench. Jack falls in love because wood stays around longer than women do.

2. Beckett has the nerve to compromise The Moral Code of Jack Sparrow by asking him to ship human beings into bondage instead of letting them run free with the giraffes and lions and piranhas...wait, piranhas live in the Amazon.

3. Jack has to stop drinking rum and think how he is going to deal with the situation.

4. Jack decides to let his cargo free in Africa, and enjoys their adoration and gifts of fruit and nice rocks (it was fine that they didn't have rum; he still had plenty on the Wicked Wench.)

5. Jack is penalized for this selfless contribution to the wellbeing of Mankind: the Wicked Wench caught and pummeled and sunk, with rum on board

6. Jack is branded

7. Jack is imprisoned

8. Jack hasn't had rum for days

9. Jack is about to escape

10. Jack runs into Beckett; Beckett grabs Jack's hurt wrist

11. Jack hasn't had rum for days

12. Jack gets locked in pantry with Beckett

13. Beckett thinks same way Jack does

14. Jack hasn't had rum for days

15. Beckett lights candle and insults Jack, causing ignition of flour bag

16. Everything is dark

17. Jack hasn't had rum for days

18. Jack's brand hurts

18. Beckett blames Jack and throws vegetables

19. Jack hasn't had rum for days

20. Jack may never get out of pantry

21. Jack may never drink another drop of rum

Teeth gritted, curse words slipping out between them, Jack recalled the layout of the pantry. Feeling to the right with his good hand, he victoriously plucked an onion out of the nearest crate. He sat back and stomped on the vegetable, crushing it into several pieces.

The world would just see how well Beckett liked allium sepa in the eye courtesy of jackilae vengefulus.

Jack hurled the floury onion pieces into the dark just as the acrid fumes rose to his face. He heard an exclamation, and then a horrendous sneeze. Eyes streaming and nose tickling, he barked, "Ha!"

"That's the worst you can-achoo!-do?" came the grated response. Jack threw himself to the floor and an instant later two potatoes hit the door and fell on top of him. Then bam another. Bam another.

Jack had almost put his face in what was left of the onion. Rising, coated in sweat, he gave himself over to an onion-throwing frenzy. Almost immediately, Beckett responded in kind.The pantry resounded with thunks and thuds and expletives as the men cursed each other, and soon Jack ran out of onions and lunged for the shelves. His hand hit a stack of bowls and they clattered to the floor.

"What are you bloody doing?" came Beckett's enraged voice, along with another potato.

"Wait an' see..." Jack grabbed two and hurled them.

The ensuing battle was so epic the pantry mice retold it for generations.

Jack heard Beckett's feet hit the floor and stood up himself. He threw two more bowls; Beckett hit him with another onion; Jack seized a ladle, realized something was stuck to the bottom of his boot, threw the ladle, got a bowl in the neck; Beckett got a ladle in the chest; Jack was hit by three carrots all at once; a serving platter smacked Beckett on the nose; Jack threw cauldrons-one-two-three-four; Beckett growled and threw an empty crate; Jack growled back and pulled everything off he shelf that he could reach-CRASH; Beckett stooped and the platter hit Jack's shins; Jack realized again that something was stuck to the sole of his boot; Jack threw a handful of spoons while wishing he could find knives; Beckett got a crate in the midsection; Jack took a potato to the ear; Beckett tried to charge but tripped over a cauldron and fell to his hands and knees; Jack bumped into a flour sack and got an idea; Beckett got up; Jack lifted the flour up; Beckett charged again more cautiously; Jack also charged with the flour sack; Beckett hit Jack…actually, he hit the flour sack held in front of Jack.

At this point in the story, all the mice pay homage to the God of Thunder, because this was when the deity spoke.

The impact of Beckett hitting the flourbag held by Jack was horrendous, incredible, baffling. Twin oofs! floated above the great rumble and then both men fell backward. Multiple mice went half-deaf when the enemies (and the flour bag) hit the floor. Trembles and aftershocks came for hours afterwards.

Jack and Beckett realized their legs were entangled. They scrambled away, making a huge ruckus. The floor was feet-deep in stuff.

There simply was no way to catalog the various things biting into Jack's back. He tried to catch his breath, eyes streaming, curses flowing from his lips as pain radiated from his wrist. There wasn't an inch of him not covered in sweat. Beckett groaned somewhere. The air was unbearable. Humid, smoky, acid with onion, its temperature had risen five degrees. It was like breathing suffocation itself.

"Well this...is lovely," Jack said. "I've always dreamed of dyin' from onion smothering. It's so ignominious…how can y'not love it? "

"Shut up." Beckett sounded congested and exhausted, but his slow order still held starch. Jack breathed deeply, and then sneezed so hard he had to make sure his nose was still on his face.

Silence fell. They both lay there, marinating in smoky onion-ness…with a sprinkling of despair for extra tastiness. In the wall, mice began construction of an altar for the God of Thunder.

Since most of them were now deaf, it was going to take a while.

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