A/N: I have to give a massive thank you to Jennifer Lynn Weston for recommending my story - I have never been so inspired after reading the reviews that resulted and I'm still reeling in amazement. Wow, there are lots of r's in that last sentence.

Thank you to society over there for the hilarious suggestion for Beckett's latin name. Thank you to pirate trixi, pinkbagels, geekmama, panzergal, Stella, and ArieiDelmonte for reviews that came just when I needed them. You are so encouraging, I can't say how much without putting you to sleep with neverending expressions of gratitude.

People who get annoyed when authors have these huge sections that aren't story and are just responses to stuff, feel very free to skip ahead. :)

To panzergal: I have this terrible need to please everyone, but I can't make this story a Speckett because I don't write slash. Also, I don't want to get into the sexual side of things - I just want this story to be as clean fun as I can get it. Thank you so much for your interest and your review!

To Stella: Your review was wonderful and made me think. And I agree with you - the '"What?" said everyone' isn't as effective. I've changed it - please check it out and if you have more thoughts on it, tell me.

Disclaimer: Well, the 2-D people are still arguing and I'm still sitting here in peace. HA. HA. And I don't own POTC.

Chapter 5

Neither pantry prisoner could say how long he lay in that terrible mess, fighting despair and rage and suffocation. It felt like forever.

Jack stirred. There was a ladle digging into the back of his thigh. Also his wrist was hurting so badly he couldn't lie still. This was the kind of pain that could only be survived by relentless pacing and knocking one's head against a wall. Or a bottle of rum. But he was rumless. The thought almost brought tears to his eyes.

Ants will rebuild an anthill ruined by a child's foot. Jack could feel his hopeless misery falling victim to the same demented urge to rebound. So he slowly sat up, grimacing when a potato and what had to be a spoon dug into his rear. One of his legs was thrown over a cauldron; he slowly pulled it off and his foot made a crash. Some feet away, he could hear Beckett stirring, too.

His head was woozy, he was still drenched in sweat, and the temperature was ungodly, but the air didn't seem as smoky as it had been. His wrist throbbed and he gingerly touched the inside of his forearm. The delicate contact felt like a scratch; his entire forearm was more sensitive than his lips after a kiss. Jack froze to contemplate a new, ominous thought. He was in danger of losing his arm. It had remained uncovered in the filthiest places and the brand had to be swarming with beasties ready to eat him alive from the inside. It wouldn't be long before his entire body threw itself into the fight against invasion and gave him a fever. He needed to cover the brand somehow…his stomach roiled. He couldn't even see his hand in front of his face.

How much longer before he went stark raving mad?

"How should I know? It's blacker than almighty pitch in here," Beckett snapped.

How Jack hated it when his mouth decided to announce what he was thinking without his permission. "Shut up," he mumbled.

"Pardon me?" was the murderous response.

"Keep yer shirt on, y'sensitive little man. I was sayin' it to meself."

Beckett cursed. Jack tsked.

Silence.

Beckett coughed once. He whooped a deep breath. Big mistake - he began hacking so hard Jack knew that soon he would be shanghaied into searching for a coughed-up Beckett lung. Jack carefully reached and plucked up the first object he encountered: a bowl.

He wriggled until his rear encountered smooth floor, then scooted to the left, causing a massive buildup of mess along his leg. He flailed with the bowl and hit a shelf. He carefully set the bowl on the shelf, which was cursed empty. Then he rested, wondering why he didn't feel like a better person.

Aie! A carrot poking into – no, we do not need to know.

Beckett was still coughing so hard he didn't have time to breathe. Listening, Jack slowly grabbed a plate and set it next to the bowl. At this rate Beckett would kill himself. Ha. Jack grinned at the tableau searchers would encounter in the morning...

They'd open the door. Kitchenware and food would leap out on a blast of air from Hell itself. They'd see Beckett first because of his white coat, slumped over the barrels. Then they'd see Jack gibbering on the floor in a fever.

That was when Jack wondered why he was grinning. Because no, this image was not at all amusing. Frowning, Jack hesitantly raised his good hand and slapped himself on the cheek. Then he nodded. Much better; the twisted thought was gone. Jack Sparrow knew when discipline was called for. Spare not thy son the rod and all that. Yes indeed.

If you're staring blankly at Jack, you're not alone because I am, too.

What's this - he's displaying the typical behavior of an embarrassed Jackilae Sparrus: clearing his throat, pursing his lips, and twiddling his good fingers above his sash. (I hope you're taking notes.)

Can he sense us?

Beckett was still coughing. And Jack was getting an ominous catch in his chest. Soon Jack would follow Beckett into Hacking Land. Then they'd have to search the floor for both their lungs and mixups were possible. Jack grimaced. To have a Beckett lung would be worse than death, since Jack was convinced Beckett had never moved faster than a brisk walk, ergo he would have lungs unsuitable for any person wishing to survive without help.

Grimly, Jack rummaged through the mess surrounding him. When his fingers touched the slender shaft of a candle, he seized it and realized that the bottom half of the candle had broken off. No matter. All he had to do now was discover how Beckett had lit the first candle.

"'scuse me," Jack said to Beckett in his best voice.

Beckett sounded like he was strangling himself. But he stopped coughing long enough to say "Bloody hell" before going at it again.

A tiny cough sneaked out of Jack's mouth. Desperately, he held his breath until the urge to cough passed.

"Excuse me," he began again, "but how did you light the first candle?"

At the other end of the pantry, two dogs tore each other to shreds. Not really. That's just what it sounded like. "Water-" Beckett gasped.

"You know well as me there's no water in here. Not even rum," Jack added snidely. "Eat a potato r'something."

The dogs kept ripping at each other. But then, miracle of miracles, they began to tire. A minute later, Beckett was gasping shallow breaths between desperate swallows.

"Illumination," Jack said solemnly, "is the first step on the path to wisdom and being able to lord it over people. I havest the candle. Havest thou the fire?"

Beckett made a noise between a laugh and a choke. "What…are you?" His voice was gravelly.

Jack sniffed the candle and realized he couldn't smell anything. His nose was traumatized and rather like a stuffed pig. (Without the apple in it's mouth, obviously.) "Nasal constipation," he muttered to himself. Ew, his mustache was full of…

"You're what?"

"I wasn't - I'm not - we need a light."

Talking to someone invisible was so odd.

"Oh I agree." Despite it all, Beckett's voice was superbly biting. "Light a candle, will you, old chap?"

"I already told you, I am in possession of a candle. I need fire."

"So you can burn everything down this time?" Beckett sneered condescendingly, but his voice cracked. "People with survival in their futures generally don't repeat idiotic mistakes."

"We keep running up against this selective amnesia, mate. You lit the candle. By the Cuttlefish's Kick, you need psychiatric help."

Beckett cleared his throat. "So says the man whose face has more paint on it than a lady posing on a street corner."

"Now that ain't fair," Jack drawled. "My cheeks're as virginal as when me mother birthed me."

"That explains everything."

Jack chuckled and fingered his dreadlocks fondly. "So, back to the point, Beckie. What you're sayin' is, y'want to sit in the dark for ten hours. Well, that's savvy. I don't mind 'cause I won't have gaze upon yer face, which would scare the rear end off a baboon. I was just thinkin' it could be advantageous, gainful, an' therefore personally rewarding t'have a light. Also, I 'eard in the London scuttlebutt that you have a crippling fear of the dark. Can't y'see I'm extendin' an olive branch here?"

There was a silence.

"You know something, Jack?"

"Aye, Cutler?"

"Don't call me that. I think I should get very angry. But oddly, I feel no inclination to do so."

"The smoke's gotten to yer thimble-sized brain. You'll recover to yer pincushion self soon."

"When you were born, did your mother drop you on your head every day?"

"How can you suggest such a thing?" Jack squawked. "No, no, me mum was the epitome of loving and gentle. Until me Da cut her head off."

"Really?" Beckett sounded too delighted to be proper.

"I refuse to divulge anythin' else 'till you light this blasted candle, y'giglet."

"And what's a giglet, Jack?" Beckett's voice turned coy.

"An insulting name," Jack growled. "Now how did you light that first candle?"

"No need to get brusque," Beckett rolled the r in brusque as silkily as he could, which wasn't very because his throat was still a shambles. "I have a flint and steel. But we can't just light a candle with that. We need a taper to light first."

"Hair might work too," Jack suggested innocently. "Your hair isn't even yer own..."

"Or perhaps we could use a dreadlock," Beckett shot back.

"Oh aye, when eels swallow whales whole."

"I've never heard that one before." Beckett started rummaging around.

"Paints a cute image in the ole noggin, doesn't it?" Jack said cheerily. Objects clattered. "Rather like pythons underwater..."

No response. Then a scraping noise. Suddenly, sparks bloomed over an arena on the floor that had a slender taper lying down its center. Jack had the impression of Japanese fireworks over a jungle of odd shapes: ladles, spoons, a plate like a dull mirror...Jack's eyes fastened on Beckett's white hand just before it vanished.

A muttered oath from Beckett.

Then more sparks rained over the taper, and one caught. A sliver of flame rose from the taper, burying tiny blue talons in the delicate wood. It trembled as it expanded, stretching timidly to a height of one centimeter.

Enthralling.

Jack maneuvered closer, barely breathing. The urge rose to beat his chest and yodel in victory. He wished he could pat Prometheus on the back, thanking the rebellious Greek god for bringing fire to men against the will of Zeus. A god after Jack's own heart, that Prometheus.

Jack tore his eyes from the growing flame. His gaze landed on Beckett's ice hands, which rested near the grainy floor, holding the steel and taper. In the warm light, Beckett's nails were flawlessly shaped...but they were dirty now. Jack smirked smugly and looked up. He saw Beckett's face just as the agent tore his own eyes from the flame. Their eyes met from where they knelt and their unprepared faces, softly suggested by reddish light, revealed something to each.

"Candle?" Beckett rasped, breaking the spell. He delicately plucked the taper off the floor and extended it.

"Aye." Jack brought the candle, which was getting mushy and slimy in his hand, into the light. Its length was a very anticlimactic four inches, but the wick was undamaged. An instant later, the wick caught flame, and they were in business again.

"We need-"

"-more candles," Beckett finished Jack's statement, and then looked unnerved with himself. An equally unnerved Jack hurriedly turned away.

In silence, the men rummaged about the mess for more candles. Minutes later, five burning candles had been placed in piles of wax around the pantry. (Or as the mice call the pantry: The Plains of Vegetable and Human-Stuff Carnage. Little mouselings still go on field trips to this historical location, and have to write 300-word essays about it on slices of cheese, which the teacher eats as she grades. The teacher is very fat.)

It was painful to return to the land of the un-blind because the mess was incredible. An onion lodged between two barrels. A platter randomly sitting on the highest shelf. Utter confusion on the floor.

But far more spectacular were the mess-makers standing at their respective ends of the pantry, separated by a sea of chaos.

Beckett's coat had huge sweat rings under the arms, and there were greenish onion shards caught in his now-frizzy wig. A discolored swelling was beginning on his cheekbone and he had a streak of flour on his neck. One of his stockings lay loose around his ankle, and the other one was so ripped it fluttered when Beckett moved. His coat, breeches, and waistcoat were completely soiled with dirt and flour. His face was red and shiny, his eyes swollen, and he had flour on his nose.

Jack grinned hugely, and his cheeks felt stiff. He touched his cheek and his fingertip came away black.

He did indeed have khol all over his face. A glance down showed he had snow-white boots and breeches. When he shifted, flour poofed off his legs. His plain white shirt was ripped in the sleeve, his right shin hurt when he put his weight on it, and bruises were blooming on what he could see of his chest. He also realized something was stuck to the underside of his boot. A glance showed it to be the infamous candle that had started the blaze, plastered to his sole in a lumpy puddle of hardened wax.

Beckett snorted, then winced when his throat protested. "Well done, Jack," he sneered, "You'd best start cleaning up."

"Me?" Jack's branded wrist was throbbing...no, his entire hand and arm were throbbing. It was like a razor-toothed monster was gnawing on his arm. "We're in this together, Cutler," he snapped with sweet venom. "I, being the injured party, in fact have less aid to contribute to the amending of this situation, so if y'want this situation t'improve, you'd better be ready to soil yer pretty little hands."

Beckett drew himself up. Jack didn't know whether to laugh or be impressed. Beckett certainly knew how to pull dignity about him like a robe. "I will do no such thing."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Very well, then." He kicked free a square foot of space and sat down. His head was spinning. "I hope you enjoy sitting on forks."

Beckett swore. "You are such a stupid lout."

"Sticks an' stones, dear Cutler. Although, coming from you, it's more like twigs and pebbles."

"This is all your doing!" Beckett suddenly bellowed. "You arrogant son of a pig, you cesspool-born slug, you blasted bilge rat from the warrens of hell!"

Jack's eyes hardened. "You're just too girly t'admit your craven swag-bellied self got us in here – you grabbed me wrist – you knew I'd react. You' re just a bestubbering milk-livered gut-griping dewberry."

"You're one to speak, pirate." Filthy, trapped, Beckett was rapidly losing control. "I will not stay in here with you, you rank sack of slime, you will rip that door apart even if it wears your fingers to stubs and oh, I will see you hung but not before I see you tortured within an inch of your scrappy life!"

"Ha! You can't even bear to crack yer own fingernails, I'm sure Lady Rowe wants baggage as manly as you!"

"Don't bring her into this," Beckett's voice went ominously quiet, "unless you want your own nails ripped off by hot pincers when we get out of here."

"An'the chances of that're just blimey thrilling."

Jack's words hung in the stifling air. Both men deflated miserably.

Blimey thrilling.

I say we re-acquaint ourselves with outside happenings, and let Jack and Beckett suffer alone. We're going to bounce around a little. We get 10 seconds at each new observation location.

Here we are in the dungeon. You'll be happy to know that it is a cliché dungeon with knives and whips and metal cages and pincers and cauldrons with bubbling oil. On a table lies an emaciated man with long hair and a torturer is approaching with pincers that glow orange and Mercer is smil-

Here we are in the officer's mess. Supper is long-finished and servants are sweeping away crumbs from the polished tables. This is to avoid a Tahitian rat infestation. Everyone knows that Tahitian rats will gnaw your fingernails when you're asleep. I'm honestly not sure what the problem is with this because people of this time period chewed their nails down anyway, which is bad for oral hygiene-

Here we are in the latrine. Here we are exiting the latrine.

Here we are on the battlements. It is a cool night with a caressing breeze and the stars are out. From the distance comes the soothing shushhh...shushhh of the Caribbean in all its mellowness. An undulating hiss issues from the fronds of a palm tree as the breeze ambles by. It's as if you can hear the world breathing sleepily. Brimstone Fortress' massive cannons are at rest, smiling at a becalmed horizon.

Here we are far out at sea. We hover before the surging bowsprit of the H.M.S. Extremely Formidable. There, the stiff wind plays with the brunette curls framing the face of a tall, slender woman just out of girlhood. She wears a simple baby-blue traveling gown that is so flawlessly tailored, one doesn't even notice it. The amber light of the for'ard lanterns catches in her quiet blue eyes and gives color to her otherwise pale cheek-

Here we are following an admiral down the deck of the Extremely Formidable. "Good evening, Howard." He nods to one of the Marines on watch. "Evenin', Admiral Rowe," the man replies smartly. Slowly, the Admiral approaches his daughter in her blue dress where she stands at the bowsprit. She turns and smiles at him.

We pull back into the liquid blue darkness. Soon the Extremely Formidable is a tiny arrowhead pointed straight toward St. Kitts and Brimstone Fortress.

There be games afoot!

Please review! I honestly feel a bit iffy about this chapter and hope you'll tell me if there was anything that confused you. Sometimes the stuff coming out of my head doesn't make sense to anyone else.

Now head over and check out geekmama's Drabbles of the Caribbean (if you haven't already). It truly is amazing what this writer can say in 100 words!

If you're looking for a thoughtful take on Norrington, check out ArieiDelmonte's James Norrington: Captain, Commodore, Admiral. She worked hard on it and I think it is very worth your time.