A/N: Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to geekmama, Jennifer Lynn Weston, TavyBeckettFan, Starling Rising, Ariei Delmonte, meowbooks, Eldonyx, and Panzergal for their reviews! It was incredible to get that response which, again, came just when needed. I will work hard to keep you all interested!

To Panzergal: I totally agree that Jack and Beckett have a lot in common and they don't like it. That is one of the funniest things about them. I am so glad you laughed and thank you very, very much for the encouragement about my style. You made me smile! Oh look, those last two sentences rhyme. Golly wolly. ;)

Disclaimer: I just peeked outside and saw Princess Jasmine throwing Pinocchio into a potted plant. I think now may be a good time leave the premises, but I'm laughing too hard. Poor Pinocchio. And poor me, I don't own POTC.

Chapter 6

I have smelling salts for you. I've used them myself and that's why my eyes are red and my nose is running.

This will seem very random until you observe what is going on in the pantry.

Yes, I know. Try not to collapse. We're all asking the same thing right now: Why is Jack packing kitchenware into a shelf with his foot? Why is Beckett stretching to push a cauldron back just a bit further onto another shelf? Who the heck thought up chocolate covered ants? Who wants insect legs stuck between their teeth?

So anyway. Look at this! Look at THIS! The floor is smeared with flour, but it's clear of all kitchenware and vegetables. The shelves are packed sloppily, but nothing will be falling off any time soon. Beckett and Jack have been busy.

Somewhere, their mothers are dabbing away tears of pride... Ah yes, sighs Beckett's mother, forcing Cutler to clean up those adorable mock executions he set up in the nursery taught him to value neatness.

Aye, replies Jack's mother, Jack hated it when I'd make him clean up his fruit sculptures, but it paid off an' no mistake.

This doesn't make me feel better. They were having such a grand argument before...we leave these two alone for a few seconds and everything goes to potted petunias!

Well, drat. Apparently desperate situations can make temporary allies out of arch enemies. This seemed to embarrass both men, because they surveyed their work without meeting each other's eyes. The candlelight would not let them ignore the fact that they'd worked together.

Jack was pondering the devastation he felt when a bullet of agony raced up his arm and into his collarbone. The shocked mental protest I didn't touch anything! was lost as the pantry began to swing like a pendulum. He leaned back against the door and slowly slid down, curling to the left until his head was on the floor. His bad wrist lay on the floury floor where he could see it.

Beckett smiled and primly sat down on a barrel. "I forgot, Jack." His voice was still rough. "That brand was never tended to, was it?"

The waves of pain were receding but Jack couldn't think anything beyond If these shots of pain're the new routine, I'll choke meself to death on a carrot.

Beckett smugly lifted his nails for inspection and jumped when he saw how filthy they were. Disgusted, he began picking the dirt out from under his thumbnail. "Well, try not to die, Jack. I want to watch you hang." A tiny, feral smile curled his lips as he stared at an invisible version of the spectacle on his baby fingernail. "I expect you'll be happy to finally swing above Jack Ketch by the time we get out of this."

Jack drew deep breaths through his nose, staring through the beginnings of tears at his tormented limb. His fingers were puffy -he'd never get his rings off ever again- and the brand itself was literally rising above the rest of his wrist, the skin around it straining. The clear liquid was turning milky now.

"Do you ever wonder why all hangmen are called Jack Ketch?" Beckett asked conversationally. "Where did that come from?"

He needed to cover it. He needed to clean it, for love of everything holy. Every second spent in here only brought him closer to limb-disaster. Jack wondered if he lay still, sleep would come over him and he could wake up when it was time to walk out.

He swallowed, gathering himself. Fate had already proved so cruel; he highly doubted she'd favor him with sleep. Slowly, he pushed himself upright with his good hand. His head spun gently, but he carefully pulled his legs in front of him and finally rested, propped against the cursed door.

Beckett stopped pondering Jack Ketch in order to survey Jack Sparrow. "You look like plum pudding that's been dropped in a rain barrel twice."

Jack's expression never changed from flat pain. "You're starting t'sound like me."

"Am I?" Beckett looked worried for a moment but he quickly hid it. "If that happens, I'll add finger-breaking to the long list of tortures I have in mind for you once we get out."

"Savvy."

"And all that torture will come after Mercer plays with you." Beckett smiled a T-Rex smile. "When he finds us, you two will have a most marvelous interlude."

"Now there's a side of Cutler Beckett he doesn't want anyone to see," Jack responded softly, the smallest smile bringing out his exotic cheekbones. "The side what says, 'Wait till my big brother finds us; he'll wallop you for me.'"

"Oh, he will wallop you, Jack."

"Don't count me bruises before they appear, Cutler. A lot c'n happen in ten hours."

The veiled threat was not lost on Beckett, but he smirked and pulled out his pocket watch. "You seem to have agreed that we should address each other on a first-name basis. After what we've been through, I'm delighted you've come around. Our relationship has surely progressed." He gave Jack a coy look, and then sneezed comically.

Jack made a face between a grimace and a smile.

Beckett sniffed. With a fabulous flick of his wrist (which sent a ragged piece of lace flying), he flipped open his watch. "It's not ten hours. It's actually eight hours and forty-three minutes. Of course, that's only if the piece of sludge running this kitchen is on time tomorrow morning..."

"Try not t'be so optimistic, mate."

"Very well, but only for you."

"I was wonderin', did y'try the door while I was still swooning?"

Beckett gave Jack a heavily-lidded look. "No. I just poked around looking for rum. Of course I tried the door. It's locked with a padlock. The wood is practically petrified. The hinges were made by maniac."

Jack stared at his wrist.

Beckett seemed to enjoy the pirate's mute despair until his own depression swelled. With a quiet sigh, he began to pick at his ring fingernail, and then dropped his hands into his lap in frustration. He looked up and his eyes widened.

Jack was tugging his shirt loose from his sash.

"What are you doing?" There was a new tone in Beckett's voice that brought Jack's head up quickly.

"Untuckin' me shirt, what's it look like?"

Beckett's lip curled. But he said nothing, watching Jack rip a long strip off his shirt. Jack waved the strip back and forth as if to air it out. Then the pirate laid his festering wrist in his lap and stared at it.

Beckett's eyes widened as he realized what Jack was going to do.

Jack held the makeshift bandaging above his wrist as if he were about to drop it. Then like the strings holding him up had been snipped, he slumped. The would-be bandage landed on his leg. He took deep breaths, head bowed.

The top of Jack's head was all black, tangled hair. The red sash circling his forehead barely held back the wild strands, which had been forced into some sort of braid. Beckett shuddered. He knew an entire ecosystem when he saw one...and Jack's head probably rivaled any ecosystem boasted by Earth herself.

"I knew you couldn't do it." The spiteful, school-boy words slipped from Beckett's lips like thorns.

Jack raised his head. His eyes were blazing. "When you are passin' though the gates of Hell an' I'm on me way to Heaven, I'll wait to watch you fall into the boiling lake."

Beckett smiled. "That's funny, Jack, because it's going to be the other way around."

All anger drained from Jack's face and disbelief replaced it. Slowly, he bent from the waist. "I bow to yer cosmic self-deception. You're in spectacular denial."

"I am not," Beckett retorted.

Jack snorted and grinned like a little boy. "That one gets 'em every time."

"What are you talking about?"

"You just denied bein' in denial. Which means you're in denial."

Beckett thought for a moment.

"You know, most people don't have t'think that hard 'bout this sort of thing," Jack said. Then he said slowly, "Saying 'no' is just like saying 'yes.' It's a trick question."

"I know," Beckett snapped. His stomach growled.

"Missed din-din, did we?" Jack murmured.

"No."

"Oh, then we missed our warm glass of milk before bed." Jack smirked.

"Warm milk is revolting," Beckett retorted without thinking.

"It is not! How can y'say such a thing?"

"I can because when milk is warm, it reeks of filthy cow-"

"Y'bear a strange resemblance to one."

"-dirt, and manure...like drinking straight from the milking bucket." Beckett shuddered.

"Y'have a point there," Jack nodded. "But I suppose I never noticed. I always take my milk with a slosh of rum mixed in. At least, I used to when I was little. Now I prefer rum sans mammary gland secretions...stuff." He flapped his good hand and then licked his lips, wishing he hadn't mentioned rum because, clams and sand in your undies, did he ever need some.

Beckett's eyes were wide again. "Are you saying your mother gave you rum with your milk when you were little?"

Jack shrugged. "Well, I don't know f'sure. She did used to say I was a good, deep sleeper, even when I was a baby. P'raps she fed me rum t'keep it that way."

Beckett shook his head, morbidly awed.

Jack barked a laugh, eyes glittering in the candlelight. "For a hardened agent of the Trading company, you're awf'ly gullible."

Beckett stiffened. "Oh, play your games, Sparrow. It won't make any difference in the end."

Jack was grinning. "You just turned yer nose up. Who did y'get yer nose from, anyhow? It's all pert an' piggy. I swear I can see half a mile up yer nostrils."

Beckett's face went stony. "I might ask you the same thing."

"Why?" Jack touched his nose and left a dot of flour on it.

"It's like a cat's, all straight and tiny. If you didn't have that scraggle on your chin and upper lip, you'd look like a psychotic debutante."

"Well, I already know that."

"That you'd look like a debutante?"

"Aye. How do you think I heard about yer deeply passionate infatuation with Lady Rowe? That was a few months ago in London. I've never enjoyed the company of painted gossips so much in me entire life. Not one of th'chatty biddies suspected me true gender, either."

Beckett grimaced. "There's a place for people like you."

"And it's a lot nicer than the place for people like you."

"Shut up."

"That's an incredibly spineless retort," Jack said mildly. "Only used by people what feel they don't have control of a situation."

"Your analysis is miserably untrue."

"But it is true. You, Beckie, don't have control of this situation."

Beckett gazed into Jack's eyes. "And you do?"

Jack's lips twitched. "The fact that you'd ask me makes the answer quite clear, really."

Beckett huffed. "You can barely stand."

"Who needs standing legs in order to be in control? After all, your legs're tiny an'you've got people doing yer nefarious bidding everywhere."

Beckett's lips tightened angrily. "I wasn't talking about legs."

"Aye, let's not talk 'bout legs. That could get obscene. Anyway. I'm not afraid to share 'bout me nose. It came from both my parents. Me father's nose was more down-'n-long with a little up-down at th'tip, while me mum's was out-'n-down with no up-down at the tip."

Beckett stared at him.

"What?" Jack asked.

Beckett kept staring.

"What?"

Beckett blinked once and then kept staring.

"Mate, yer eyes'll get stuck that way."

Beckett was still staring.

Jack fidgeted. "Do you like lilacs? I like lilacs."

Beckett snapped out of it and scowled. "I hate lilacs."

"Then what flower do you like?"

"Question. Why are we talking about this?"

"'Cause we're locked into a tiny space in th'middle of a huge fortress wif no way out an' no way t'get help; really, we've nothing better to do."

"I beg to differ. Simply breathing would be better than discussing flowers."

"Ah, I see what this is. Y'think that discussing flowers will somehow compromise yer masculinity."

Beckett snorted.

"When really," Jack looked innocently philosophical, "a man truly confident in his masculinity would have no qualms 'bout discussing flowers, indeed, he wouldn't be bothered by discussing lace."

Beckett crossed his arms and shook his head smugly. "No, Jack. You are not going to goad, manipulate, or trick me into telling you which flower I like."

Jack's lip curled. "Yer determination is adorable in its futility."

"And your arrogant mockery is buying you hours upon hours of agony. If you keep at this, you'll be spending days in the torture chamber before I finally let you hang."

Jack folded his hands saucily. "Well, taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotameteaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuakitanatahu."

Silence.

Beckett wore the oddest expression, something between insane mirth and terror. "Jack," he said with extreme self-control, "I've noticed something."

"No. Really? An' what would this thing be?"

"There's a candle stuck to the bottom of your boot."

Jack contemplated him mockingly. "You're wondering if that big word's real, or if I just made it up."

"I am not."

"You are too."

"I'm not."

"Y'are."

"I don't gave a flying bat's tongue!"

"Y'give that and the bat's claws and its wings."

"I do not."

"You do too."

"I do not!"

"You do too!"

"I'm not doing this!"

"Beckie's in denial again."

"For the last time, shut u-"

"Ha!" Jack's grin froze the words on Beckett's lips. "There's the shut up flag again."

With a snarl, Beckett hopped off the barrel and stalked toward Jack. From the look on his face, all hell was about to break loose.

"I have lice," Jack said congenially, scratching behind his ear.

Beckett stopped cold in his tracks and swelled, fists tight at his sides, breathing hard. For a moment he looked as if he was going to throw himself on Jack, lice or no lice. But then he glanced at the ceiling. Slowly, his rage faded.

Jack, who had pulled his knees tight to his chest in preparation for attack, raised a worried eyebrow.

Beckett's eyes followed the ceiling and trailed over the shelves.

Jack twiddled two fingers under his chin. "Wot is it?" he whispered.

"I can breathe without trouble. It doesn't even smell like smoke any more. "

The pirate frowned and looked around, sniffing juicily. "Doesn't it, then?"

"The air has cleared drastically and very quickly…too quickly for a sealed pantry."

"Too quickly, aye? My elite ability to reason deductively tells me you're tryin' t'get at some profound point what will affect our situation, even our lives, irrerminably and intevocably–er–interminably and irrevocably."

Beckett's right eyelid twitched. Jack allowed himself a grin.

Then their eyes met. Their wary gazes said the same thing, Blast it, that comradely feeling is back.

The monster called Teamwork loomed up between them with an evil grin.

-cackles- Please review!

Now you MUST go read TavyBeckettFan's Castaway: Part 1. Beckett gets stranded on an island and starts talking to a coconut and it's hysterical!

Starling Rising loves Tamora Pierce's Immortals series (as do I). I highly recommend all three fan fictions she has written, especially Gone Astray. Very worth your time!

If you read meowbook's Overlooked fan fiction you will be amused and fascinated by her oneshots dedicated to overlooked POTC characters. Definitely check it out!

Eldonyx's stories are in gorgeous French, which I've been trying to learn. I recommend Pour l'éternité, a sweet oneshot starring Will after POTC3.