For two tumblr prompts, "Tell me she's lying" and "You're a terrible liar" which ended up being related.

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The rum cellar, the most sacred place of any ship, his sanctuary in trying times, feels now like the smallest of cages ever made as he paces the length of it. 20 steps, that's how small it is.

But like hell is he going back on deck where he might come across her.

It might be easier to bear, the imprisonment, if he were alone — which he is, except for the two specters of himself, discussing back and forth the meaning of what he just witnessed, when all he wants is to forget the incident.

Of course he had to stumble into the two lovebirds, alone in the dark, Elizabeth trapped between the wall and the whelp, faces close as they whispered hurriedly. Jack held back a gagging noise as he turned back the way he came, only to be stopped by Will's voice:

"I just didn't know what it was, I thought-"

"You thought I loved him."

"Do you?"

"What if I did?"

"What if she does?"

"But she doesn't."

"How can you be so sure, jackie?"

Jack groans, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, aching head cradled in his hands. He's too sober to deal with this.

"Tell me she's lying," he pleads to the other Jacks around him.

"But why would she lie about that?" One of them replies, smugness pouring out of him in waves and Jack thinks, am I really this annoying?

"If she were to lie, the logical thing would be to deny such a thing, not accept it." The other one adds, infuriatingly calm and Jack has to agree he's making a lot of sense.

With another groan, he tips his head back and chugs down a hearty gulp of rum. It's one of the very few precious bottles left, and if they don't get out of the locker soon and find more, Jack may very well just throw himself overboard. He wouldn't drown, he can't because he's still (already?) dead and whose goddamned fault is that?

Speak of the devil. The door opens and she enters his sanctuary, looking around helplessly until she spots him and startles, eyes suddenly wide and shoulders tensed as if for a fight.

He doesn't hold her gaze, but he doesn't go back to his bottle.

"I just came looking for some rum," she explains, somewhat tentative, as if asking for permission.

"Be my guest," he's too troubled to bother with sarcasm so he points her to their dwindling supply, not once considering denying her anything.

"Thank you," the corners of her mouth tremble just a little, like she's trying to smile but can't remember how.

He nods stiffly and turns his gaze to the wall; her retreating back is not a sight he's fond of.

When he hears the door shut behind her, he lifts the bottle back to his lips… Only to find it is empty.

"Why is the bloody rum always gone?"

The sound of the bottle crashing against the wall is the only answer he gets.

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It has been an eventful night, if there ever was one, and tomorrow promises to be quite the event too, yet Elizabeth can't sleep.

She paces the length of her room — Sao Feng's room, that is now hers, as is his ship and his title — like a caged beast. All 20 steps of it, from the glowing hearth to the window looking out to the ocean.

"Why did he do it?" she mutters to herself, again and again.

I killed him. He hates me. Why did he do it?

That's the endless mantra. The moon was high in the night sky when she started pacing, and now it is halfway to the water, going back down so the sun can rise on the other side. She will not sleep anyway, she knows this, and if she's going to die tomorrow then she might as well make the most of what's left of the night.

She never changed for bed, so she exits her room before she can convince herself not to.

The winding corridors of Shipwreck Cove are deserted, no one around to help her find her way, but this is a pirate palace all the same, and in the distance she can still hear the celebration going strong (bloody pirates will be tired and hungover tomorrow and how do they expect to win a war like that?) so she follows the sound of music and drunken laughter until she reaches the main hall.

She makes her way around the crowd but never once spots the man he's come in search of. Eventually, she comes to a stop beside one that looks a lot like him.

"Captain Teague." She doesn't know how to address him, she barely knows the man, and though he is a pirate and she has met dozens of them by now, this particular pirate is, well, important, if people's respect for him is anything to go by.

"Second door to the left, Your Majesty." He smirks a very familiar, very golden smirk, his black eyes endlessly amused. Elizabeth would insist she doesn't know what he's talking about, but he goes back to his guitar and is therefore lost to the world again.

The second door to the left opens with a squeak, and she realizes she should've knocked first, but oh well. No going back now. The room is dark except for the moonlight, streaming silver from the open window. She almost regrets coming, thinking he might be asleep — of course he isn't, though, she can just barely make out his silhouette, sitting by the desk with a bottle glued to his lips.

"Why did you do it?"

He doesn't startle, the squeak from the door was warning enough.

A sigh, then he sets the bottle down. "Not come to apologize, then?"

Oh, she never did apologize, did she? She wasn't planning to, didn't think he'd believe it anyway, didn't think he wanted an apology. But she's here, and chances are tomorrow she'll die, so there's no point in holding back anymore.

"I'm not sorry I did it, but I am sorry it caused you pain." She keeps her voice a whisper, the darkness around them too sacred to disturb. He makes a crossbreed between a laugh and a snarl, and she can see him standing up from his chair.

"So why did you do it?" She insists, now that she's given him what he wanted.

"Why did I do what?"

"Why did you vote for me?" I thought you hated me, she wants to add, but it feels too intimate, to acknowledge that such strong feelings run between them.

"Served my purpose, darling. How else was I going to convince them to leave the Cove if not by the King's command?"

"So you used me?"

"When have I not?"

It feels like a slap across the face, stings worse and the bruise settles to continue aching till the end of her days. She turns to go, because evidently there's nothing left for her here, but his hand on her wrist stops her.

"My turn," he snarls, pulling her back into the room and pushing the door shut behind him. "Why did you come to the locker?"

"Let me go," she shoves at his chest, trying to push him aside but he won't budge.

"Not until you answer, Lizzie."

It's a feeling she's gotten used to by now, after almost two years dealing with pirates, this knowing that she should be scared but feeling only exhilaration. She turns the question over in her head, not because she doesn't know the answer, but because she can't think of a good enough lie.

Still, the room is so dark she can't see his face, he can't see hers, she could say anything and he won't have any reason not to believe her.

"Because it was my duty. Because I owed you." It still feels too intimate, too much like a confession, and her heart thunders in her chest and her cheeks must be red and she's sure she's trembling, but she tells herself he can't see this in the dark.

"And is that the only reason?"

"What other reason could there be?" Her voice doesn't come out half as biting and she intended, but it doesn't matter, she has answered and should now be able to leave.

She makes to push him aside again, but this time he grabs both of her wrists, voice laced with urgency as he continues his interrogation. "Something I heard on The Pearl makes me think duty may not have been your foremost motivator."

Her blood runs cold in her veins, her pulse picking up double fast and she's sure he can feel it, with the way his thumbs caress the insides of her wrists, too tender for a man technically holding her hostage.

"You're an eavesdropper now, Jack?" She tugs halfheartedly, but she's too overwhelmed to really fight back.

"A captain doesn't eavesdrop in his own ship, love. He makes his way back on deck regardless of who is in the way, or whatever conversations are being held near." His voice has gone deeper, raspy from the rum and rough like his hands on her flesh. She closes her eyes, tries to imagine she can see his face, can read what it is he wants from her.

"What conversation was that, then?" it comes out so low that for a moment she thinks he didn't hear her, but then she can feel his face coming closer, until his breath is ghosting over her ear, and there he whispers:

"Your dear William seems to have thought you loved me."

Her hands clench into fists, which he must be able to feel from his hold on her wrists. "Ridiculous, isn't it?" she tries to make it a laugh, but it comes out breathless even to her own ears.

"So you don't?"

She thinks about it a second too long, and not even she believes it when she says "Of course I don't."

She can feel the rumble of his laugh where he has her hands pressed to his chest.

"You're a terrible liar."

And when she parts her lips to deny it, he covers them with his.