Jack woke without opening his eyes, the sensation of sunlight tapping on his eyelids enough to wake him. Cold. That was the last thing he had remembered. Not so much now, he thought, only half-awake. Adjusting his head a little, he wrinkled his nose at something like hair veiling his face. He took his time opening his eyes, still sore from…from, bugger. All that he could remember was being cold.

Eyes finally opened, he snapped them shut and opened them again at the sight of Elizabeth's face right next to his, sleeping. Sleeping topless.

Without thinking, he pulled her back to him, concealing most of her body with his. What had happened? Tempted to pat her hair out of her face and wake her, he instead found himself wrapping his arms around her tiny waist. It was the first time he had seen her sleep and he rather liked it, her face relaxed without all the burdens she must have carried with her ever since she came to him in Tortuga and he had seen fit to let her borrow his compass, like she was finally indulging in a much-earned rest. He didn't dare move. One flinch could kill the moment. Instead he gazed at her, at a few loose strands of her hair painted over her face, at those luscious lips slightly parted, almost pleading with him to touch.

You love her, mate, despite everything, don't you?

He didn't even want to think about that, so tired of plotting and contemplating and confiding in himself. Lord, her waist was small. Only here, he smirked. Only here could he go from freezing to waking up with a half-naked Lizzie in his arms. To progress from hellish to heavenly could make one grow used to such a place.

"Cap'n! You're up."

Or not.

"We thought we might lose you again."

Jack cranked his neck, his eyes wide at the sound of Pintel's voice so close. Sure enough, there was a fleshy, shirtless Pintel beaming at him with jaundiced eyes.

Scrambling out of his sandwiched position, Jack leapt to his feet and backed away several feet. He felt only a twinge of guilt for jolting Elizabeth awake, watching her wordlessly crawl to her shirt with her arm over her breasts. Not sure where to look, he caught from the corner of his eye Ragetti waving to him from a large bonfire.

"Good to see ye, Captain! Olive?"

"What the bloody hell am I looking at?" he yipped out loud, his eyes searching frantically for his own shirt. Unable to even breathe, he grappled with it, slapping it every which way until it was no longer inside out, and threw it on over his head. Dry. Of course it should be dry. Sun was out, was it not? That was the event that made the most sense as of late.

"Now don't get excited, Jack," Pintel said, holding out his arms to give him enough leverage to stand. "Would have caught your death of cold had we not come by."

"That's true, Cap'n. It was like right bloody cold not too long ago." Ragetti nodded. "Olive?"

His arms rigid, a migraine in the works, he marched into the woods, letting out an earsplitting groan. Come on, Jackie-boy, he thought in his father's voice, snap out of it. Wake up. His hands flew to the sides of his face, tapping and tapping as if they were debating whether he deserved a good slap or not. They traced the cut along the side of his face. Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger!

"All right," he said, closing his eyes, his arms stretching up and over the back of his head. Think. The Pearl was nowhere in sight, as usual, meaning he was not at the helm of said vessel, much as he wanted to be, and he distinctly remembered being at the helm of his Pearl. Therefore something had torn him from her, a wave. That's right. There had been a squall out here, a cold one at that, which would explain the fact he had felt cold and thusly eliminate all possibilities except the one that involved being thrown from the ship and washing up on the exact island he had tried to beach the Pearl on. Taking into account that scenario, the ship should be nearby, stranded somewhere waiting for him. But he couldn't have gone to it at the time because according to that one-eyed child-man he had been freezing to death…which brings us to you deciding to have a breakdown alone in an overgrown forest, he thought, dropping his arms to his sides. The mental retracing of his steps had slowed his heartbeat enough.

So, here he stood. If after every tempest come such calms/May the winds blow till they have waken'd death! He had had his shirt off in front of his crew before. Blazing suns and no shade will do that from time to time, but this time felt absolutely violated at the same time he felt that he had violated her.

Coming after him, well, he could hand-wave that. Coming back to get him was the least she could do considering it was her pernicious, seductive…impressive…manipulation that wound him here in the first place, all to uplift her guilt. But just now…did he owe her now for such an action? It seemed like that was the gist of their relationship, a constant back-and-forth of playing with each other's lives…when they weren't removing each other's clothing, that is.

So to join them or not to join them—that was the question.

"Jack?"

Her shirt untucked and uncovered by a vest, it fell right in the middle of her hips and her knees. Brave to the last. He'd give her that. He wouldn't have followed him into the brush after carrying on like that.

"Would you join us? It's going to be dark soon." Shame filled her eyes, her voice still timid around him. Her foot shuffled into the earth, kicking up a little of it. "It's not much, but we have some food and the fire may be a beacon for the crew to come get us."

"I wager you'd know best about that," Jack said, cringing at his own attempt to give her a coy answer. It hadn't been all that long ago they'd been able to flirt and even though she was just as unattainable then as she was now, he still much preferred that. Recalling the last time they were marooned together, the scolding, self-righteousness tone in her voice when she bluntly stated that there was more than good enough reason to burn the rum, he tightened his mouth into a slim smile.

"Does that mean you'll come out?" Elizabeth asked, and he had to force himself to stay angry with her. Her question sounded more like begging, "please don't leave me alone with Pintel and Ragetti." No, he had to admit, he wouldn't inflict that kind of punishment on her.

"Only if it means those two remain modestly clothed." She twitched, stifling a laugh, her mouth scrunching up to stay somber.

"I think I can arrange that," she said, a spark growing in her eyes, along with something else he couldn't place, which unsettled him. For a brief second, he thought it might be fear, but he had seen too many pairs of eyes express fear towards him, none of which belonged to his Lizzie. See, if that's kind of phrasing that lands you up in trouble, mate. He followed her back out to the campfire.

"Olive?" he heard when they exited the brush.

They found the tent just as a full moon and a billion stars glittered above them. A lush dusty purple tent, the table in it had slices of carved meat lying out on platters, trays of breads of all textures, bowls of potatoes, corn, tropical fruit, buttered carrots. Long-stemmed goblets of red wine stood at the back of the table, a stack of ivory plates and silverware next to them.

"Ye don't suppose somethin's fattening us up, do ye?" Gibbs whispered.

Will paced the perimeter of the table, his fingertips tracing the edges. His stomach roared at the sight of the food, food that wasn't fished out of the sea, but out of a palace's kitchen, everything baked and fried and chopped with a servant's diligence. Sniffing the faint aroma of honey when he hovered over the dinner rolls, he plunked one up and placed the whole thing in his mouth, letting the taste melt inside him before beginning to chew. Gulping it down, he picked up another one.

"Well, can't say I be patient enough to wait for Mr. Turner to die, so…" Barbossa trailed off, harvesting a plate and utensils and piling up what looked like beef on his plate. Gibbs followed, dipping a roll into one of the wine glasses.

"Fit for kings it is. The voice was right."

Will stopped sucking on the peach he had found and bent his head to peer out of the tent's entrance. Nothing followed them in, no hint of anyone being with them or having been with them. Keeping his eyes on the entrance, he sank to the ground and crossed his legs to keep his plate on his lap. Glazed ham—he hadn't even seen glazed ham since Christmas with the Swanns, several months ago before the aborted wedding, before the arrest, before voodoo women and krakens and any hope that his father might be alive. Just savor the meal, he reminded himself, shaking his head at the memories of his father on the Dutchman, betting what was left of his soul to save his.

They ate in silence, the only sounds being the tinkling of the forks against the plates and all the thuds and dings that came with getting up for seconds and thirds.

"Pity Jack ain't here to partake," Gibbs said, wiping his chin with a napkin. "Be a hard-earned reward for everyone."

He and Barbossa only nodded, more like animals in their thinking than they would have liked to admit. Pick up. Chew. Swallow. Drink. That was about all they could muster.

"Enjoyin' the fixings, are ye?"

Will swallowed, choking on a bean.

"Yes. Yes. It's been so long since we've had this much to eat," he said to the voice. "Thank you. Is, is there anything you ask of us?" He held his breath, knowing full well there had to be. Pirates never did anything unless they had something to gain. Change the subject. "Who are you?"

"Mary."

The three men exchanged glances. Mary? They shook their heads, no Mary ever cropping up in any of their adventures or any stories they might have overheard one night in a pub.

"Thank you, Mary," Will said. "We greatly appreciate this."

"Mary," Barbossa began. "We been lookin' for members of our crew for some time now, even had one in our party what disappeared on us. Might ye be knowin' where we need to look to find them?"

"Everyone is safe as they would be in their mothers' arms."

"Well, that is good to know," Gibbs said, more to Will and Barbossa than to Mary. "Are ye a ghost, good lady? Is that why we can't see ye?"

"T'would be simpler if I were," Mary giggled. "Ye can't see me because I choose not to be seen. No need to fret about your friends, even the ones here ye don't know are here. Just eat up now, rest. It's when you return to your world's when the big challenges'll come. Well, I bid thee good night."

"Mary? Mary?" Silence.

"Friends we don't know are here, what the devil does that mean?" Barbossa exhaled before taking a sip of wine.

"It must be allies in the ship Tia Dalma mentioned before," Will thought out loud. He shifted back on the ground, his tailbone hitting something soft. He turned to find tasseled pillows behind him, each one the size of a small child and of a scarlet velvet. All he could do was hold one up and wait for the others to eye it, their mouths agape in confusion. "Obviously it won't be cold enough to need blankets," he joked, trying to settle his own nerves. He breathed a sigh of relief when no blankets magically appeared before them.

A/N: Jack quotes from Othello in this chapter. I hope you enjoyed his little freak-out. I'm not so comfortable with the unintentionally funny side of Jack, so if you laughed...good. Feel free to do that. This is a fun fic, after all. Ragetti constantly offering Jack an olive is a homage to O Brother, Where Art Thou, itself a homage to The Odyssey in which Tim Blake Nelson keeps offering George Clooney gopher meat...don't ask. "Intrigued beyond all limits" is a quote from The Odyssey describing Penelope. "Not one could equal Penelope for intrigue, but in this case she intrigued beyond all limits." Don't own the series, the large-eared mouse does.