A/N: I had fun writing this chapter and I hope you all enjoy reading it. Thank you to TavyBeckettFan, Jennifer Lynn Weston, kweenofmagic, and Panzergal for your reviews! Special thanks to kweenofmagic for the double reviews and the humor. ;)

((To Panzergal: Yes Beckett does have a bit of a crush. I'm glad you don't think I'm compromising his character by doing such a thing. I just thought that since he's relatively young in this story, he'd still have a few hormones left in his body, enabling him to get crushes. I'm also glad you like Lady Rowe! Thanks for your encouragement!))

Disclaimer: I don't own POTC and am now on the run! They broke down the door and I was forced to climb through a window! Now I'm running for my life through a forest. Golly wolly!

Chapter 13

"He's fought the fever all night," Walters said. "Honestly, I didn't think he'd make it."

Beckett fixed Walter's in an icicle-gaze, hating that he had to glare upward. "Don't try to put a positive twist on this, Doctor. He's still sicker than a cow and that is what matters, not your low expectations for his survival."

Walters swallowed. "Yes, sir."

It was eight o' clock exactly. Beckett looked chipper in a deep blue coat and cream breeches. The spots on his face were fading and the bruises under his eyes simply enhanced his dagger-like intensity.

It was now eight o-one. Walters's eyes were scratchy and his head ached with weariness and stress. His long apron sagged low on his chest and his hair was mussed. The bruises under his eyes made him look like a soggy leaf about to disintegrate.

Beckett was decidedly unsympathetic. "Straighten that apron. You look worse than he does."

Walters felt dubious about this. It would be hard to look worse than Jack Sparrow. Simply put, he looked like a doll tossed in a river and washed up on the shore. Then pressed into the mud by a plow horse's hoof. Then dug out by a drooling, flea-ridden dog and carried around in its mouth for a week. Then used to keep a butcher's door from closing. And then kicked through London by a bored peddler.

"How much time has gone by since I last visited our invalid?" Beckett asked suddenly.

Walters glanced at the six fresh guards standing around the room and trying not to look like they were listening in. "Twenty-four hours, sir."

"A full day," Beckett agreed quietly, unblinking eyes fastened on Walter's face. "I'll do the math for you. You have twenty-four more hours...and then all hell breaks loose. And when I say hell..." he stepped closer to Walters, "I mean it."

Walters decided he adored staring at his shoes. "Understood, sir."

Beckett turned on his delicate heel and left. Mercer, previously hovering about the doorway, joined his master. They strode down a long, faceless corridor.

"Jack Sparrow will be on the rack tomorrow morning, recovered or not," Beckett muttered. "This waiting is heinous."

"I'll see what I can do," Mercer added quietly.

"With Walters?" Beckett snorted. "The man was asleep on his feet, the bastard."

Beckett crossed into the main part of the citadel. He briskly rounded a corner-

-and almost slammed into a pale green column of nice-smellingness.

It was mind-bendingly hot. Fire serpents licked his feet. Bubbles of wind tore into his mouth, sucking moisture from already-parched flesh. A sand dune sat upon him, a silent furnace heavy as the world. Jack Sparrow could hardly even breathe.

He hurt. He hurt. He hurt.

In his mind, he sat down before a tiny stage. On the stage was a brick shed, four feet by four feet. A man was pulling a sack of flour inside. There were already five such sacks in there, looking like huge loaves of white bread. Why did the man need more?

Jack raised his hand. He had to ask!

The man never looked up. He pulled out a knife and began to slash open the bags of flour. Spumes of flour shot up; cascades of it slid serpent-like to the floor. The man kicked at the flour sacks until clouds of the tiny particles streamed dreamily out the doorway. Then he lit a candle and dropped it straight into the whole mess.

He left the shed. The instant he cleared the doorway it filled with mortared bricks, as if it had never existed.

The man straightened and looked Jack in the eye.

Jack's hand dropped and he shrank in his seat.

Beckett dug in his heels to keep from plowing straight into Lady Rowe. (Though the thought of such bodily contact was quite an attractive one). He heard her surprised gasp and then he was watching her draw herself up, up, up, an annoyed hardness about her normally soft mouth.

She was wearing a silk gown of green so delicate the folds looked like they'd shatter if handled roughly. Her dark hair was pulled back into curls that cascaded down her back. She looked oddly young.

Beckett bowed. "Pardon me, Miss Rowe."

"You must pardon me as well." She curtsied briefly.

They stared at each other.

"Your friend doesn't like me," she said.

"What?"

"That scarecrow shadow of yours," she said, her mouth amused now.

"Mercer." Beckett glanced back and found that Mercer had vanished. "I'm sure it's nothing personal - he's shy."

Pleasantly smiling now, Lady Rowe did an about-face. They walked together down a corridor dotted with arched windows. The run raged through each window, lighting Lady Rowe on fire as she passed by.

"You enjoy rising early, I see," she said.

"I like having a head start on the day."

"Well I don't," she said plainly. "It doesn't seem possible to get 'a head start' on time."

She stated her opinion so freely, it gave him shivers. In some oddly delicious way, he wanted to crush her. But politeness was the rule. "It must feel odd, then, to be up so early."

She smiled. "I don't sleep well in unfamiliar beds."

"Oh, yes." Beckett could feel his neck heating up. They strolled on in silence, she relaxed, Beckett with his hands behind his back and scandalous thoughts on his mind.

"You were in the infirmary?" she asked suddenly.

Jack stared.

The man was tall, confusingly dressed, and his face was so weathered it seemed petrified. Kohl was smeared about his heavy-lidded eyes, and a sash, so much like Jack's, covered his forehead. His hair was black as night, dotted with beads and dreadlocks.

"Use your head, boy," he rasped, voice deeper than a dream.

The shed exploded behind him, sounding like a giant slapping a mountain. Bricks flew and the man vanished in a white-yellow flame that hurtled thirty vengeful feet into the air with a shrieking roar. Heat so intense Jack could feel his clothes crackling slammed over him in waves. Curled, hands up to shield his face, he felt himself truly begin to burn.

He couldn't scream, couldn't dictate a will. Couldn't even whistle.

Rachel walked straight into the infirmary, head down, heart pounding. She felt awful, a bundle of nerves and aches. Somewhere inside she was wondering, What is going to happen? What am I doing?

She felt her knees going weak and leaned more heavily on her father's arm. A small woman in a drab blue dress and a lace cap emerged from the infirmary's single corridor.

"Mrs. Cayton!" Rachel's father exclaimed.

"Mr. Hanley?" the woman said. Her eyes fell to Rachel. "Rachel, dear!" she pressed a hand to Rachel's forehead. "So pale. What ails her?"

"Don't know. I found her this mornin' in bed wit' a splittin' headache," Mr. Hanley said. "Says she didn't get a wink o' sleep. Thought you could help."

"Well, she's not feverish," Mrs. Cayton replied. "But I'm sure she'll thank us if we let her lie down before we discuss any further. Follow me."

Two minutes later, Rachel lay down on a narrow cot. When the bruised back of her head hit the pillow, she suppressed a wince and rolled onto her side. This room was small, with two cots along one stone wall and a high window above each.

The cot tilted as Mrs. Cayton sat. Mr. Hanley hovered above her. The grilling began. Where is the headache? In my head. Any other pain? No. Sore throat? No. Been staring at script for hours? Not enough for a headache. Male troubles? ...No.

Mrs. Cantey nodded knowingly. Rachel was diagnosed with too much stress and told to rest all morning under Mrs. Cantey's care. Her father's brow wrinkled. Mrs. Canton fetched her some water, her father kissed her forehead, and then they both left, pulling the door to behind them.

Rachel gingerly felt the back of her head, then went very still.

"Will she be safe?" her father was asking. "I heard there's an odd situation here..."

"The pirate," was Mrs. Cantey's whisper. "Yes, he's here. But he's under heavy guard. Completely isolated. Rachel will be very safe."

"Even so, I'll come back at noon."

Their footsteps receded.

Rachel tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before it could poke her eye. She hadn't even put it up, she'd felt so awful.

She hadn't told her father about Mercer. As far as she knew, Mercer hadn't threatened her father. No. He had attacked her, the weaker one.

His assault had wreaked both mental and physical havoc. Her head was still bruised and the emotional impact was vaster than she'd expected. All night she had felt Mercer's merciless grip on her arms, seen his wolf eyes eating her up. She had fought the memory valiantly, trying to create mental space for scheming. She wanted to help Jack Sparrow, that brave, tan, lithe, helpless pirate, but she had failed. Mercer wouldn't let her alone.

But now she was in the infirmary. She couldn't have planned it better. How lovely to be female and therefore allowed to become incapacitated by stress.

She just had to figure out how to get down the hall.

To Jack's relief, the fire died. He was left smoldering, cooling, cursing. The little stage, the shed, the man, were gone and he was thirsty again, entire body aching for want of water...no, not water...

Rum. Aye. Rum! Rum-tum-tum! Rummy-tummy!

But rum was never there when he needed it. He'd have to look for it again. "Buggery dewdrizzles," he tried to say. Unfortunately, his tongue was roughly the size of Madagascar.

Walters was bathing his own face with water when Jack Sparrow's labored breathing subsided. The doctor almost knocked the water bowl over in his rush to the pirate's side.

Jack Sparrow breathed softly as a baby. Walters smiled at him, proud. Nothing was more powerful than the human body.

"Mubberly dregribbles," Jack croaked. And then he opened his eyes. Walters had forgotten how black they were. "Motter," he added, trying to moisten his cracked lips.

Walters was well-versed in sick-speech. He nabbed a mug with water and slid an arm under Jack's head, lifting the mug to his lips. The pirate frowned down at the cup, but he drank, gulping crazily. Then he stopped and his eyes lazily swiveled to Walters' face. He looked confused. Then he smiled.

"'ello, love," he said in a voice much recovered. Then his eyelids slammed down. He was fast asleep.

Slowly, Walters slid his arm free. Then he knelt beside the pirate's bed under the eyes of all the guards and exulted in the fact that they both were going to live.

Well, he amended, remembering Beckett's ice-splinter eyes, I will.

Terrihorribulabyssmalistic? Okayumediocresosoly? Funnyhilarigoodious? Do tell!