Author's note: As I said I have never written anything like this...hope it's not too disconcerting! (See, that's what people get just for kissing...no seriously I hope this isn't too dark. Well, if it's any consolation it doesn't get any darker than this.)

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A ship is like a house, once you lived on it for a certain amount of time, it becomes part of who you are. Though its ears and eyes may not be visible at first glance, they are there nevertheless. That's how Davy Jones knew. He knew that they had lied to him, that they tried to manipulate him. His tentacles intoned a tempestuous crescendo on the organ. It didn't come as a surprise to him. The fact that the girl travelled in the company of Jack Sparrow was already an indication of her foul character.

He knew all about the depravities of mankind, mainly because he had witnessed them in all of its exponents that crossed his path. Nothing could surprise him or cause him to feel revulsion, except for one thing – love in all its forms and varieties.

So the insolent, wide-eyed girl and the courageous Englishmen were lovers. That was the reason for his foolish bravery, the reason she dared to set foot on his ship. Davy Jones's face contorted in something akin to a devious smirk. The arrogance! They thought they could fool him, of all people! He knew all about love and had decided at one point in his life that he wanted to know nothing more of it. He had seen its true face. Behind a polished porcelain masked, whose features were ever-smiling, always serene, lurked utmost ugliness and decay. Pain, despair, jealousy, blind passion – love was the box of Pandora. Once it was opened all sorts of horrors escaped from it. He had been cured. Thank….God? No, not God, he had ceased to be responsible for him a long time ago. He had orchestrated his own salvation and therefore was his own master. He ruled over his kingdom, this ship, with wisdom and a firm hand. Nothing could distract his keen mind, he had become deaf to the tedious whisper of emotions like love, mercy or affection. Once and for all…once and for all.

The tentacles rested for a second on the keys. He could feel their surface. It was cool, calming…the yellowed ivory, not so pure any more, but eternal. So they thought they could fool Davy Jones? How they must have enjoyed this feeling of superiority. Maybe it let them to believe that their secret meeting on deck would not be discovered. He remembered how arrogant love had made him feel. His claw slammed down on the keys and produced a cacophony of sounds.

They disgusted him! They deserved to suffer. Worse than anybody else in this universe. He would enjoy it like a full-bodied red wine, like an aria sang by a talented soprano, but he was getting ahead of himself….he needed them, because something very crucial had been taken away from him – the freedom to make his own decision. He was reduced to being a mere puppet, a lackey who followed orders. It was against his nature…he had not cut out his heart, because he was some pitiful wimp, who couldn't live with the devastating defeat of being rejected by the woman he loved….quite the contrary. It had been a conscious decision, that allowed him to free himself of a burden, so he could do whatever he pleased. He had simply decided that love was not meant for him and that it could be easily traded in for more power and ultimate freedom.

He wanted his freedom back! He wanted to punish them, kill them and make them suffer like the worst sinners suffered in hell, but not just yet. For now he would have to content himself with a rather lenient form of punishment…torture. They would both live, but whish they were dead.

When he stepped out on deck the next morning, he was in unusual good mood. Some of the crew noticed the smile on his face, it was a strange blood curling sight comparable to dark clouds and lightning before a devastating tempest. When Davy Jones smiled usually people died. This time though he had to settle for the next best thing. "Bring me the girl and the Englishmen," he told his first mate who had sensed his captain's vigour and was now hurrying to accommodate his wishes.

A few seconds later the two prisoners were dragged before him. The girl struggled wildly, while her companion appeared to be more calm and collected. "I thought we had an agreement," she hissed at him accusingly. As on cue Sparrow arrived at the sight, followed by Bill Turner. Apparently they had been in conversation, when his two fellow prisoners were let away by the first mate. The pirate craned his neck to see what happened, but kept in the background otherwise. A wise decision.

"We had an agreement alright," Davy Jones answered calmly.

"So?" Josephine raised her chin at him challengingly. "I can stand on my own," she snarled over her shoulder at the first mate. The sole consequence of her words was she could feel his vicelike grip tighten around her slim wrists. If she was in any pain it didn't show on her face. She was a brave little girl – a spitfire, probably too much to handle for that Englishman anyway. Perhaps he was doing them a favour if he killed them once he had gotten what he wanted.

"What can I say? Perhaps that I'm disappointed? Yes, I suppose that sums it up appropriately….I am disappointed you thought me so utterly stupid and easy to manipulate. Didn't you think I would find out sooner or later that the two of you are lovers?" he could see her pale noticeably at his words. The man briefly closed his eyes, then averted his head. When he looked up again his jaw was set in determination. Davy Jones took his time to savour their reaction to his revelation.

"How did you…how did you know?" the girl asked quietly. Her voice was slightly quivering. Now she was suddenly not so strong anymore. Oh, how much pleasure this would afford him!

"You were seen last night."

"There must be a mistake…," Jack Sparrow tried to interfere, obviously he was trying to help his companions.

"If you want to reach Port Royal alive, you better keep out of this," Davy Jones gave him a pointed glance, that caused the pirate to immediately shrink back into the crowd of onlookers.

"I'm painfully aware of the fact that your services are still needed…," here he inserted a dramatic pause, "so I will have to settle for torturing you instead of killing you," the crew cheered at his words.

"You won't lay a finger on her," this time the Englishmen had decided to speak up. There was a determined sparkle in his eyes and Davy Jones could tell that he was serious.

"Oh, but I never intended to. There are more ways to torture a person than just hurting them physically, Admiral Norrington," the title rolled ironically from his tongue. "However, when it comes to you…well, I'll just settle for letting the bosun whip you."

"Don't…I promise I'll do anything you ask for…I swear…if you just spare him," the girl pleaded with him. It was really pathetic. He could literally reek the despair on her.

"I'm afraid you have nothing to offer in which I would have even the slightest interest," he looked at her disdainfully. "but if you play your part in this the way you're supposed the poor Admiral won't have to suffer too much."

He could see the struggle on her face, the question gaze she threw her lover as if he could help her now, then she finally answered resignedly, "What do you expect me to do?"

"I merely want you to watch, but if I hear the slightest sound coming from your mouth, see even a single tear fall from your eyes, it'll mean one more strike with the whip for your lover, which the bosun will be all too happy to administer….So do we have an agreement?" she dimly registered the sarcasm in his words, but nodded dejectedly nevertheless.

"I didn't hear you!" Davy Jones thundered loudly.

"Yes, sir," she said with a frail voice.

"How many, Captain?" the bosun asked eagerly.

"Eight strikes."

The scene had something surreal to it. They ripped open his shirt. She could see his white skin underneath, untouched by the sun, unmarred. Her eyes curiously rested on his chest with a certain fascination, despite the inappropriateness of the situation. It was the first time she saw him with his shirt of, something close to being naked. It was not a private moment. Not even this was like it was supposed to be, but she had no time to dwell on this thought for too long.

Their eyes met briefly. The intensity in his gaze almost frightened her. What she read in it was not fear, but determination. He was going to face this for her. He would face worse for her. That was what he wordlessly told her with his gaze. She nodded at him in acknowledgement, a comparatively small gesture, but what else could she do?

He was brutally hauled around and tied up on a wooden cross that was already sullied with blood from his predecessors. When the bosun raised his arms to gather force for the first strike, something inside of her congealed. It was like her heart ceased to beat for a second. Time seemed to slow down painfully as the whip connected with his skin. He flinched, a sharp intake of breath, but no cry. A red streak formed on his back. A red streak…red, red, red. It spread on his back, the outline of the whip. Then it changed colour to a deeper burgundy colour - there was blood.

She could almost feel Davy Jones's eyes on her, so she tried not to let her emotions show on her face. All she wanted to do was scream, cry, rip the whip out of the bosun's hands and strike him with it, but she could do none of those things. All she could stand idly by and watch.

He flinched again as the whip hit him the second time. Still no sound came from his lips. Three drops of blood on white snow. She did not know where that thought suddenly came from, but she clung to it, because maybe it would distract her so she could bear playing her part this cruel spectacle Davy Jones had devised. Three drops of blood fell on snow. The whip lashed out again. They looked so pretty and innocent upon the snow white. Again the dreadful sound of the whip hissing through the air. She was watching, but not really watching retreating further into the memory of a fairy tale she had read as a child. A few weeks later the woman had a child whose skin was as white as snow and whose lips…red…red…blood. She blinked, but still there were no tears in her eyes. If she allowed herself to cry he would suffer more, because of her. She would not allow this to happen. So she waited for this to be finally over.

When it finally was, she hurried over to James, but not before she had thrown Davy Jones one last lingering glance. He knew very well how to interpret this stare, because he had only recently received it from a young man by the name of William Turner. It held the heartfelt promise of revenge and seething hatred. He let her hurry to her lover's side and take care of him. With a nod to the crew he dismissed them. The crowd slowly dissipated and he retreated to his quarters. Witnessing them being torture hadn't afforded him the pleasure he had expected it would. What he felt was nothing.

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The bosun regretfully undid the ties of the prisoner. He had not even started properly and it was already over. The girl was suddenly there. The expression in her eyes frightened him. He had never seen anything like it, though he had spent many years on board of this ship whose sight alone was already blood-chilling to most people. He hurried to get away.

Josephine froze as she looked down on James's back. The whip had carved into it a pattern of red streaks, some bleeding, but surely all of them very painful. She saw his muscles flex, as he tried to stand up and was quickly at his side.

"Darling, I'm here," she whispered to him and briefly caressed his cheek. Her palm was consolingly cool. "Let me take care of you," she said softly and he thankfully lay an arm around her shoulder for support. He got to his feet and swayed slightly. A feeling of light-headedness suddenly overcame him, so he had to lean on her with all his weight. He immediately felt sorry for it, but he had no other choice. She was struggling momentarily, afraid to fall, then Jack came to her aid.

"Let me give you a hand," he offered, but his attempt to assist her was rather hesitant at first. Both men stared at each other. Apparently those few moments sufficed to let them come to some kind of silent understanding. Jack slung the other man's arm over his shoulder. This gesture was as casual as ever, but its significance ran much deeper than his nonchalant behaviour let suspect. It was the foundation of a truce.

They hoppled over to a barrel that stood there in the corner, aside from the busy activity on deck. It lay in the shadow and allowed a certain amount of privacy. They sat him down there.

"Thanks," she said breathily and smiled at Jack who just tipped his three cornered hat in response.

"Anytime," he said simply and turned to take off.

"Jack, wait! I need something to clean the wounds…." she had said it as if he knew where to get something to disinfect them with! As if she automatically assumed he always had a flask of rum on him! He had half a mind to be cross with her, but then thought better of it. Considering what she had just been through, he might as well be nice and do as she had asked. He begrudgingly reached into his pocket and produced a flask, but ere he handed it to her he briefly swivelled it to make sure it was still full.

"There you go," he said gruffly.

"Thank you," she briefly squeezed the hand in which he had held the flask only moments ago, looking him deeply in the eye to emphasize how much his gesture meant to her.

"You're welcome, love," he grinned at her with the satisfaction of having done a good deed and strode off.

"I'm impressed. You're even getting a pirate to grow a conscience," James remarked weakly from behind her. She quickly turned to look at him. It was the first time he had spoken since…since the whipping. His paleness and the sweaty shimmer on his forehead told her that he was not well, but somehow he seemed determined to overplay it with a witty comment.

Josephine dignifiedly ignored his remark, "Are you…," she quickly caught herself. It was rather foolish to ask a man in his situation whether he was alright, "I-I'll get you shirt."

"Alright," he said weakly. She threw him a worried look, then disappeared quickly, to return seconds later with his shirt in her hands.

"I'm going to clean your wounds," she sounded like she was giving herself an instruction. He only nodded dimly at her words. Her eyes briefly landed on his hands. They were grabbing the edge of the barrel and held on so tightly his knuckles were protruding and had turned white in the process. He had to be in a lot of pain. She gulped heavily.

Josephine rounded him and got to her knees to inspect the wounds on his back. Inside of her anger and frustration threatened to unleash as she saw how deep the whip had cut, but none of it showed on her face. It was still as if Davy Jones watched her. For some reason she just couldn't bring herself to show any emotion whatsoever.

With a quick and forceful movement she ripped the sleeve of his shirt. The fabric tore with a loud noise, then, almost mechanically, she drenched it in alcohol. Josephine hesitated briefly, "This is probably going to hurt," she said apologetically. Her hand with the damp cloth still hovered over his skin, waiting for his answer.

He could hear a hint of agitation in her voice, so he tried to calm her with his words. "It's alright. Do what you have to."

And so she went to work. Her touch was very gentle, as if she was afraid he would break if she applied to much pressure. That he tensed each time, she dabbed the alcohol on the wounds, added to her insecurity. Two conflicting thoughts overcame her. She didn't want to cause him any further pain, yet she knew that this had to be done or else the cuts would get infected…

But she couldn't help but wonder whether she was she doing everything right. What if she wasn't doing it properly? What if the wounds got angry a few days later? He could die of traumatic fever…No, this was nonsense – it was her insecurities talking, but nevertheless the danger existed and she was having a hard time ignoring it, though it was only very remote possibility.

Her vision started to blur. Josephine quickly wiped her teary eyes with the back of her hand. Why did she have to cry now? This was the most inopportune moment…she had a job to do…she had to take care of him like she promised. It was like a vicious cycle - her disappointment in herself caused more of those pesky tears to well up. She sniffled a little, but continued her task.

"Are you alright?" James asked with a preoccupied tone in his voice. He could feel her hands tremble on his back. That and the sharp intake of breath that followed his question told him that she was in fact far from being alright.

"Yes, it's…it's nothing," Josephine lied ineptly. She tried to control herself, but managed only partly. Still silent tears ran down her cheeks, but she continued her work.

"Liar," he said simply and turned to face her. He winched as the cuts on his back announced their presence by emitting a wave of fresh pain, but chose to ignore it. His eyes searched her face and immediately registered the tears that trailed down her cheeks. He tenderly brushed them away with his thumb. She just looked up at him with wide eyes. Her vision became blurry, when more tears gathered in her eyes. Looking at him and crying, seemed to be all she could do, since she had somehow run out of words in the last couple of hours. She still held the bloodied cloth clutched in one hand, the flask of rum in the other.

There was no way he could make this situation right with only the help of consoling words, however much he wanted. He could not lie to her and promise that everything would turn out alright, since there was no guarantee they would get out of this alive. Apart from that she deserved better than hearing white lies for comfort.

There was only one security he had right now, the one thing he could tell her that was true. Maybe it was not consoling, maybe it was not what she wanted to hear right now, but he had to confide in her, especially under these circumstances – despite the circumstances.

"Josephine…I have something to tell you, which until now I have not dared to say…," he started somewhat over-dramatically.

Despite her tears and the situation she had to laugh a little at his choice of words, " I think we're very much past formalities, dear," Josephine told him with a sad little smile on her lips.

"I'm aware of that," James smiled back at her, his aching wounds momentarily forgotten, "but… I have never told anybody…there was never a woman I felt for the way I do for you…those feelings…they are hard to describe…," he said somewhat clumsily. "What I'm trying to say and that very inarticulately, I fear, is that…I love you, Josephine."

For a second she didn't say anything. She downcast her eyes and licked her lips. "James…," her voice was very mellow and fragile at the same time. Then she paused as if she was searching for the right words and it occurred to him that that never was a good sign. In fact it always was the harbinger of rejection. James braced himself for the next words to come, because he feared they would hurt more than the marks the bosun's whip had left on his back.

"Maybe it were better you did not," she said and fresh tears shimmered in her eyes, when she looked up at him, "because then none of this would have happened," she looked down on the bloodied cloth in her hands.

"I do not regret anything…not a single thing. It could happen all over again and I would not care as long as…," he paused and his sentence hung there in the air unfinished.

"I don't want to do this to you. I don't want to put you through this, if that is what we have to do to be together…maybe there's worse to come. Who knows what we'll have to face once we arrived at Port Royal. My brother…"

"I don't care," he said firmly.

"What do you mean you don't care?" Josephine looked at him incredulously, "I thought you were the sensible one of us," she added almost accusingly, "I can barely stand this," she rubbed her hands on her trousers. There was blood on them – his blood. "What if the worst should happen…what if you should die?" her last words were barely above a whisper.

"Believe me, I'm very determined not to," he managed an encouraging half-smile.

"James," again she said his name. It was as if she was holding on to it, as if it gave her comfort and calmed her. "I do not merely worry for you…it's more than that…far more. This goes beyond sympathy. 'I feel for you' seems to be such a weak phrase in comparison. Those wounds inflicted on you…they pain me, too. The pain as much as being with you makes me happy," she took a deep breath. It took a lot of courage to tell him this, "as much as seeing you gives sense to my days."

The tense expression on his face slowly melted away as he realized what her words meant. It had become infinitely more tender and equally more vulnerable. This was him at his most honest in a moment he was more himself than at any other time. "Josephine," his voice trembled ever so slightly, "am I allowed to hope then?"

Only then, when she looked at him, looked at him with his soul bared to her, she realized who he truly was. She saw a passionate, kind, yet shy man, who had been bruised by life every time he had let his true character shine trough from underneath a façade that had become his second skin. He touched her deeply, more deeply than anything or anybody ever had managed to in her life. It was not compassion. She recognized a kindred soul.

"Have you not been listening?" her voice was very soft and emotional. "Have you not heard a single word I was saying?...James, I love you…passionately…insanely... very unwisely…deeply."

"You love me…," he repeated as if he was having trouble wrapping his mind around this foreign concept. Slowly, very slowly and tentatively a smile spread on his face and to his astonishment he had to acknowledging one thing. The thought alone was paradox in itself – despite the direness of the situation, the multiple aching wounds on his back and the prospect of impeding doom, he was for once in his life happy.