Despite his will's exertions to do otherwise, Jack found himself bobbing in the shallows of sleep as he lay in Bill Turner's hammock, his vigil over the open doorway sabotaged by his treacherous eyelids. He would stare into the passageway beyond Bill's quarters until his vision started to blur, and the next thing he knew he'd come awake with a jolt, and no grasp of how long he'd been drifting for.

It felt so damn good to let his eyes close, but before they ever managed to stay that way for long his mind supplied him with another of its suggestions as to what he'd find staring him in the face when he opened them again.

He couldn't let go enough to fall into true sleep, but he couldn't force his body upright and out of its gently swaying cradle, either.

The muted voices of the Northern Beacon's crewmen grew fainter, as if Jack was sinking downward, farther and farther away from them. He slowly became less aware of the pressure of his arm beneath his cheek. The tension that had animated him for these last days ebbed as unstoppably as the tide, and he couldn't resist that gentle, insistent pull.

Jack treaded sleep like water, unwilling to let it close over his head. There were things waiting in the deep that would bite.

…………………………

While his shipmates set about retrieving what meager spoils they could from the dead Charybdis, Bill Turner saw to the bodies of her crew. There was little to be done; the last of them had been dragged up from below and laid out on deck while he'd been on the Beacon. He folded hands over chests, at least where the damage allowed it, and located some burlap to cover the worst of them. It was a paltry dignity, but all he could offer.

He felt they were owed words, but was at a loss as to what those might be.

See to their families, God, if any of them left anyone behind.

"You know you're chummier with the dead than you are with the living, Bootstrap." Downey came up beside him, giving the line of bodies a critical eye. "Huh. You reckon that one there has feet about the same size as mine? I been needin' me some new boots."

"Any trouble below?"

Downey shook his head. "Not a peep. Some o' the boys are makin' a last pass through, seein' if there's anything else worth botherin' with."

Bill worried his bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. "Good idea," he said, mostly to himself, then clapped Downey on the shoulder. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"To the hold and the bilge."

"I just came from the hold, Turner. We've got everything." Despite this assertion, Downey trailed Bill in his descent.

"Very thorough of you, but I'm not looking for cargo."

"Well then what the hell are you lookin' for, a place to take a piss? You can do that topside. I'll even hold yer gun for you."

Bill smirked, but kept going. They passed by the Beacon's crewmen, all heading in the opposite direction. They got a few curious glances, but no questions.

Around them, the silence of the Charybdis thickened as they moved deeper down, the air almost stagnant, and by the time they entered the hold, it was as if they'd been swallowed.

Well-timed analogy, Turner, Bill scoffed at himself.

"Ah, shit, it's empty. If only someone had been around to tell us that before we came all the way down here."

"You know, Downey," Bill said, making his way to the bilge hatch, "you really ought to work at having a better personality to compensate for what you lack in good looks."

"Did you just call me ugly and unpleasant?"

"Aye. Light that lantern, will you?"

Downey did so, handing it over, and Bill leaned down to hook it just to the side of the ladder into the bilge, his eyes scouring the dim, damp space beneath. Bayonet cradled carefully at his side, he climbed down. Downey knelt, leaning across the open hatch, his own weapon across his thighs.

"You ever wonder how many deaths come about as the result of stupid buggers pokin' around in places they got no call to be pokin' around in?" Downey wondered casually.

"A fair few, I'll wager." He stepped down to stand on the bottommost timbers of the Charybdis, briny water sloshing around his shins. He remained there, quietly, the water throwing rippling light across his face.

After a few minutes, Bill took a step back, and knocked with the butt of his rifle on the hull, four times. He lifted one foot, kicking lightly at the surface of the water, splashing, then stopped.

There was no other sound or movement. Nothing else disturbed the water.

Bill gave it a moment more, than his stance relaxed. "All right. We're done here."

Downey rolled his eyes as Bill turned and climbed up the ladder. "By the time we get up top, somebody's gonna have my boots, y'know."

…………………………

Captain Yearwood was on deck waiting when they emerged. Most of the rest of the crew had already gone back to the Beacon. "You gents done with your constitutional?" the captain asked wryly.

Bill's mouth curled up. "Just making sure we didn't miss anything important, sir."

Yearwood's breath huffed out in a voiceless chuckle. "If I didn't know you had a more sensible head on your shoulders, Bootstrap, I'd say you've been listenin' to that little boy's ghost stories."

Unperturbed, Bill's gaze slid past Yearwood to Parks, who stood at the rail of the Charybdis wearing a trace of a sneer. "Sounds as if he's not the only one telling them. Guess I missed you below, Parks," he called to the other man. "Or have you been up here all along?"

The sneer was wiped away, abruptly, as a murmur of laughter passed through the men who'd heard.

"Anyway, Captain, " Bill went on, "she's as light as we're going to make her."

Yearwood nodded, pleased. "Good. Then let's get the hell out of here. I'm goin' to have to burn this fuckin' smell out of my nose."

………………………….

Jack supposed the fragments of sights and sounds that lapped at the hull of his mind had to be dreams, though he felt more awake than asleep when they came.

The whorl in the wood-grain of the crate that had started to look like a cross-eyed owl after the third or fourth hour he'd been staring at it…

His legs carrying him like an unwilling passenger down a dark corridor, eyes blinded and tearing in the fierce brine-scented wind that buffeted his face and made a sound like singing…

A drop of cold water on his shoulder. Another on the side of his face. And another…and another…and when he opened his mouth to speak or scream, he coughed out bitter saltwater in choking, burning bursts instead…

He lifted his head when he thought he heard Bill's voice calling him, and saw a web-fingered, sickle-clawed hand grasp the doorjamb, down low, near the floor—

His body propelled itself from the hammock without pausing to consult his brain, and Jack stumbled when his feet hit the floor. He righted himself in one step and froze in place the next, searching the threshold of the tiny space Bill called his quarters for movement, watching for wet, spidery fingers to appear, listening for the scrape of scales across wood.

You bloody pathetic little coward.

His own voice sneering in his head straightened his spine, forced him to swallow past the painful knot in his throat.

Surely nothing that had ever crouched or slithered in the dark could be as dreadful as being caught fearing it.

There's nothing out there, anyway, idiot, he reminded himself, and drawing a steadying breath, strode purposefully into the corridor.

When he rounded the doorway and collided with a body coming the other way, it was difficult to say who yelped the loudest.

"Lord, Jack, you scared the shit out of me," Bill Turner laughed breathlessly, one hand pressed to his forehead. He dragged it down over his face, groaning. "Don't really fancy picking up any new grey hairs this week, lad."

"Sorry, mate. Got a bit restless." Jack's grin was quick. Almost quick enough to make panic look like nothing more than surprise.

Almost.

The laughter left Bill's face. "I thought you'd be out cold by now, Jack," he said, benignly. "You look like you could stand to keep a pillow company for a day or so, lad. I can get you a nip of something to help--"

"No!" Jack replied sharply. Too sharply; a line deepened between Bill's eyebrows at the edge in the young man's voice. "Not much point to that. It's the middle of the day. If I can't sleep now I'll just…sleep tonight." Jack shrugged one shoulder dismissively, but found Bill's gaze was not so easily shaken. He raised his chin in a promise of defiance when the older man looked about to argue.

Bill Turner would have been a poor pirate indeed if he couldn't read the weather, and upon scenting a brewing storm, he decided to change course – this time. "All right then," he acquiesced, nodding. "In that case why don't you come above with me? I imagine you're a bit tired of looking at walls."

Jack seemed to loosen all over, and a more easily summoned smile lit up his face. "Too right, mate. Let's go."

……………………………

"So did you find anything interesting?" Jack asked some time later, as the two of them made a slow lap around the Beacon's upper decks.

"Nothing to top this," Bill replied, raising his bandaged arm. The younger man grinned, an impish expression that proved infectious, as Bill smiled in spite of himself. "Yeah, you laugh now…"

"Oh, I'll be laughin' later too, mate," Jack assured him.

"Don't be so sure of that, lad. You don't know where this arm's been."

Jack chortled, and Bill felt a startling sense of elation. As the two of them came to stand at the stern, it dawned on him how long it had been since he'd had even a breath of happiness. He looked out across the water, and for the first time since he'd come to the Caribbean, he enjoyed the sight.

This warm, garishly bright place wasn't home, but neither was it the exile it had been just a few hours before, when today had been yesterday and his heart had felt so heavy he couldn't fathom how it held itself up in his chest.

Maybe it was having a reminder of how quickly and cruelly life could end flung in his path. He wondered if any of the Charybdis' crewmen had been cursing their lot before the sea reached into its abundant arsenal and relieved them of their burdens.

Maybe, on the other side of the Atlantic, Cathleen and Will had forgiven him for leaving.

He was tugged abruptly from his thoughts by the sound of the captain's voice. "Well, Turner, let's have a proper introduction." Yearwood's wily blue eyes looked Jack up and down.

"Certainly, sir. Captain Yearwood, this is Jack Sparrow. Mind you don't sneak up on him; he's a biter. Jack, this is Noah Yearwood, captain of the Northern Beacon. Don't make any ark jokes unless you're abnormally fond of heights and would enjoy an extended stay in the crow's nest."

"Captain," Jack greeted respectfully, shaking the man's hand when it was offered. There was a glint in his eyes as he spoke, though. "Never had a problem with heights, m'self. They can be quite exhilarating."

Yearwood snorted. "Particularly when you fall from them."

Bill bit back a grin. If Yearwood's intention had been to chase that spark from Jack's eyes, he failed dismally. It was fanned now, threatening to catch and spread.

Maybe, Bill considered, he'd finally found something in the Caribbean that was worth the grief of the journey.

Yearwood caught him trying not to smile, and ignored it. "So tell me, Sparrow," the captain pressed, "what are you good at besides surviving?"

Jack crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, beaming.

Oh, this ought to be good. Bill took out his pipe, intending to enjoy this conversation to the fullest.

"Where would you like me to start, mate?" Jack prompted.

END