A/N: Oh my gosh, I love you guys. I don't think I've ever gotten this many reviews for a story before. XD I think I can call myself proud but I'm not really sure. Massive songs of praise to my wonderful, delightful reviewers: Miss Cuttlefish, Mistress Beckett, Rhinoceros, Countcresent, Lazy Elizabeth Beckett, ninjalover13, SunAndMoon16, and wellwithmysoul. I'm also now confident that my characterization is good enough... I think. Though now it's going to start getting harder, considering the situation that our lovely protagonists (wut?) have been faced with. Oh—and I keep forgetting to mention this! I don't have a beta reader, so any typos (I know there are a lot; I read these through but am too lazy to fix them once they've been uploaded) are my fault alone. Haha. Can't believe I accidentally wrote "for sprite" instead of "for spite" once. Come on, Beckett would never do anything for a soda that hasn't even been invented yet. oAo;

Disclaimer: I don't own Pirates of the Caribbean. Neither do I own the lovely characters presented herein. Except maybe any OFCs.

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol. Gasp that is so bad for small children I should be hung.

Chapter Ten

Water.

Derrick Parker opened up his eyes and felt his whole body sore and stiff with pain. Grunting, he propped himself up on his elbows and then onto his butt, leaning his back against the filthy brig wall.

...Wait. Brig?

He scrambled to his feet and looked left and right. This was not the Endeavour. And it certainly wasn't the Pearl. He shifted his gaze to look at his prison neighbor and groaned.

Jack Sparrow was sitting there, content as a cucumber, humming almost deliriously under his breath. He was gazing at a ring of small keys dangling from his spidery fingers.

Derrick gave him an incredulous stare and approached the bars. "Sparrow?" he spat in a hiss-like tone. "Are those the keys out of here?" he interrogated with disbelief hinting his voice.

Jack glanced up past the rim of his captain's cap. "If that were the case, don't you think I'd've smuggled me weasely black guts out uv here already?" he said.

Perturbed, Derrick asked, "Then to what do those keys belong?"

Jack grinned and, instead of answering, took to gazing at the little bits of metal. He spun them round his fingers, listening to the satisfying clinking noises they made upon hitting each other.

Derrick grumbled and sat down in his cell. "What happened? I can't remember anything."

"Well," said Jack, "since I was being held in that miniscule-li'l-cell-thing within the Endeavour, I can't really tell you, now can I?"

Derrick rolled his eyes. "If you truly were being held under constant lock in said ship, then do explain how you ended up in here."

Jack smirked. "I'm a pirate, mate," he answered, as though it was the excuse for everything.

Unfortunately for him, though, Derrick didn't consider it as such. He turned away from Sparrow and faced the empty cell on his other side. "What happened to Barbossa and Gibbs?"

Jack tucked the keys into his coat and shrugged, starting to pick at his nasty, grimy fingernails with his teeth. Derrick, dismayed, started pacing in his cell, unable to deal with the lack of things to do.

God damn it. This is all Beckett's fault...

The room was thick with smoke, and Beckett couldn't help but cough a few times. He hurriedly took a seat as Captain Valor removed his feet from the table, slowly bringing the pipe from his lips, letting out a long stream of smog.

"Cutler Beckett?" said Valor in disbelief, although his facial expression remained relatively calm and smirky as always. His eyes gleamed with both confusion and excitement.

"It's Lord now, actually," Beckett responded haughtily as he waved smoke away from his own face. "Although I would imagine it's hard to tell with my current state."

"That it is," Valor said softly as he sat up, upturning his pipe and tapping it against the table, letting the burned-out ash drop onto the surface. "And just what do you require of me, Milord?"

Beckett coughed one last time before finally clearing his throat. "A ship and a crew, for safe passage to Port Royal."

Valor's brows rose. "How did you come to arrive here at Port Faith without a ship and crew of your own?"

Beckett was bitter at this. "Of course I had a fleet of my own, Captain Valor. A rabble of pirates managed to take down my flagship and I was washed ashore here. Though it's rather regrettable, I must say that my circumstances are rather dire, and I am in need of assistance. Therefore, I have come to you for help."

Now, Captain Samuel Valor was by no means a pirate, or at least, he didn't consider himself to be one. He much preferred the term "privateer"—and yes, while it was true that his Letter of Marque had been long expired and revoked, it didn't matter much to him. He still showed it off, even if all authorities reviled and spat upon him. But Cutler Beckett had always taken kindly to Valor; whether it be because he knew that he would be of worth in the future or simply because Valor was just good to keep around was anyone's guess.

So Valor cocked a brow at this. Indeed, Port Faith was not the most lawful of places, but still; pirate sightings were rare in this area. "I must admit that I find your story to be quite far-fetched. It's been quite a while since I've ventured out, and perhaps the times have changed, but last I recall, Port Faith is renowned for being completely unlawful and safe at the same time. I rather doubt that you were ambushed by pirates. If you're here just to lure me out..."

"Safety and unlawfulness cannot coexist," snapped Beckett testily, and then shied his tongue. Regaining his propriety, he said, "As I recall it, I have always been more than simply generous to you, Captain Valor. I would appreciate gratitude in return. All I ask is a crew and a ship. Is that too much to request of you?" Although his tone was lazy and nonchalant, his words had a malicious gleam in them. An underlying threat.

Valor sighed, letting out a spate of tobacco smoke once again. Beckett recoiled. He did not like tobacco, although it was a very profitable trade. He had made quite an enterprise with tobacco, but he himself did not favor it. There was something vile about it that repelled him. It must be the smell, or the way it quickened the yellowing of the teeth; he wasn't sure.

"The times have changed, Lord Beckett," said Valor finally, his voice slightly coarse. "I'll consider your offer. For now, I'm going to ask that you remove yourself from the premises. I'll not want to see you here again unless I send for you."

Beckett was surprised, and allowed that spatter of emotion to be shown. What in the world—? Valor never acted like this. He'd always been known as an honorable man that always kept his promises and knew his place, not some blathering buffoon who thought himself inherently superior to his betters. What could cause him to behave this way? Yes, granted, it had been many years since they'd met, but people couldn't possibly change so dynamically... could they? "Are you refusing my request?" Beckett said finally.

Valor stuck his pipe back into his mouth. "I believe so, sir," he answered.

Beckett abruptly got up from his seat, almost as though he was ready to raise his voice, and then contained his irritation. Quickly gathering together his composure and putting on a calm face, he said, "Then may I request something far simpler?"

"Such as what?" inquired Valor, cocking a brow.

"A place to stay for the night, perhaps," said Beckett.

Valor considered this, and then—shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that, either. Not under my custody, anyway. You'll have to look elsewhere for assistance, Mr. Beckett. Sorry to say."

Beckett let in a long, drawn-out breath of air (and tobacco smoke, as well). "May I inquire as to why you are refusing my simple requests? They should be of no burden to you."

Valor hesitated, glancing out through the shawl that divided his small alcove room from the bar. Sighing, he admitted, "You're a 'wanted' man, here, Mr. Beckett. Both you and I know that Port Faith is as welcoming a place as ever, indiscriminate it may be. And that any law is an accord established by the peoples and able to be broken at any time if it is most appropriate at the time. But... odd as it is, someone here had the gall to say that you're no longer wanted here. Although our policy may be to accept all, I'm afraid that that policy does not apply to you."

Beckett stared. He wasn't sure what to think of that. Yes, he knew he wasn't going to be well-received by the people at Port Faith. But he definitely was not expecting a full-out criminalistic approach from the friendly port town. What had he done to merit this, he wondered? Someone important in the town must really hold a grudge against him. He couldn't help but ponder that person's identity, but he waved off the thought. It wasn't important at the moment, but he would find out soon enough.

"Very well, then, Captain Valor," said Beckett stiffly. "I suppose I shall make my leave now."

"That you will," said Valor with a tilt of his cap. His eyes were steady on the British Lord as he made his leave from the alcove room.

All was silent, until a woman walked out from the shadows, approaching Valor from behind. The shuffling of her dress and the tap of her toes broke the quiet spell. Valor coughed, clearing his throat, and lowered his pipe. Turning his head just a slight, he gazed at the lady who stood there with an impish, satisfied grin on her face.

"Tia Dalma," he regarded with a soft murmur.

Beckett angrily kicked a coconut as he headed back to the place where he had left Elizabeth. No one was around, so it was fine if he acted angry and childish, he thought to himself furiously. He almost started swearing and cursing, but he wasn't going to stoop to that level. Instead, he merely watched the coconut fly in the air and fall into the ocean with a satisfying plop.

Pleased, even though he knew that the kick had done nothing, he promptly headed back to the shady area where Elizabeth was resting against a tree, still unconscious, her face peaceful and almost angelic. He smirked at the irony, and then flopped down into the sand next to her, leaning against an adjacent palm tree, resting his tired legs and body.

He was just starting to get slightly comfortable when he suddenly noticed an odd expression on Elizabeth's face. A slight, poorly suppressed smirk. Beckett was perturbed. That kind of forced expression wasn't the kind that unconscious people made.

"Ms. Swann?" he said cautiously.

Elizabeth tried to remain expressionless, but then she just flat-out giggled, her eyelids fluttering open. "Really," she said breathlessly. "Kicking coconuts?"

Beckett blinked. "For how long have you been conscious?" he interrogated poignantly, avoiding the question tactlessly.

She snickered. "Long enough to see you stomp back in a rage and kick a helpless coconut into the sea."

He exhaled loudly enough to be heard, tired of the way he was being treated by all the people he had actually bothered helping. He made a note to himself to treat everyone poorly and manipulate them with razor-sharp strings; they always listened better that way for some odd reason. The ones he had been kind to never seemed to appreciate the favor, but the ones he treated cruelly knew the pain of punishment and so shied away from it. Of course, this was a note had made to himself long ago, but sometimes he felt the temptation to develop positive relationships just in case they would be necessary in later times. Which they had. Sometimes.

Elizabeth propped herself up a bit more, wincing a slight at the cut on her arm. Waving off the pain quickly, though, she said, "Where were you?" Her voice had an odd lilt to it, which Beckett noted, but he was quick to attribute it to the slight blood loss from the cut on her arm.

"Attempting to retrieve assistance," Beckett responded in a clipped tone. "Before you may inquire as to my success, I will respond by saying it was a failure, which should be readily apparent from my obvious irritation."

She nodded. "Where are we?"

"The specific name of this island, I'm not sure of," Beckett replied. "However, there is a town nearby called 'Port Faith.' It is there that I sought assistance and failed to find it."

She smirked. "Maybe they know better than to help a man like you." She relished in the goodness of her comeback, and then finally realized what was different about Beckett.

"You're not wearing your wig," she said bluntly.

Beckett sighed. "Shall I congratulate you for noticing?"

"Why aren't you wearing your wig?" she asked. He looked strange without it. It was like seeing James without a wig; it was just wrong. He appeared too normal, too average. The wig made him seem pompous, proper, and posh. The lack of it made him seem... strangely equal. And it made her uncomfortable—yet strangely comfortable.

"Venturing into Port Faith required a proper disguise," Beckett answered with an annoyed tone. He was getting tired of answering questions. "And anyway, it doesn't matter, now does it, Ms. Swann? We're stranded on this island."

"But you just said there's Port Faith. Why can't we just leave from there?" she pointed out curiously.

He chose not to answer, leaving it to her own devices to guess. Beckett instead turned his attention to the pistol that he had received from Amadi, deciding to fiddle with it.

Elizabeth watched on curiously. She wondered just what exactly had happened at Port Faith, but didn't want to ask. She definitely did not want to be reprimanded by Beckett. She took a brief swig from the water canteen sitting next to her, which she'd found earlier and had been using for a while. Then, she suddenly remembered that she had something more interesting to do. Reaching into her dress folds, she procured My Lyfe Amonge the Pyrates. Although she had just been through seawater, the book appeared relatively intact.

Beckett lifted his head from the pistol and stared. "You've been carrying that thing with you this entire time," he said with slight fascination. "Can you tell me why?"

She shrugged. "I suppose I really like it. It's exciting."

"It's mine," he said numbly, though he wasn't going to argue.

Elizabeth smiled. "You did say I was allowed to read it."

"As long as you handled it gently," he reminded her. "You've gotten it wet. I wonder if the words are even legible now?"

She grinned. "Shall we test it out?" She scooted over until she was uncomfortably close to him. Beckett gave her a slightly incredulous stare and scooted away, but she came closer until she was up next to him.

He narrowed his eyes. Perhaps it wasn't the blood loss. He sniffed the air around her and cringed. "Where did you...?" he gaped and then his eyes spotted the innocent canteen in the sand. He reached forward and snatched it, unscrewing the cap and giving it a whiff. Recoiling, he informed her, "Ms. Swann. This is not water."

But poor Ms. Swann was already too drunk to realize that.

A/N: Lol. I just couldn't resist myself. (X You know I'd just jump at this.