AN: Well, this one came to me in spurts throughout the day and I had to get it down. I think I'm in love with this one, actually, and I'm not quite sure why, because it's not really fluff, and it's not really angst, and it's not really in between the two either. It might just be that I finally, finally got out an Elizabeth POV. She's damn hard to nail, that girl. As Jack knows well. g

Disclaimer: You know that mouse with the really big ears? The one who sounds a lot more like a eunuch than Will does? Yeah. The mouse owns.

Palms

They've pressed their palms together, standing on the deck, and she can feel the raised skin, the white scar that matches hers, pressing into her hand and she can tell he's remembering it all, as well.

It's that shared past that brought her here, to this moment, and she wonders sometimes if her ever thinks on it the way she does, a fond remembrance of when they first came to know each other. She gets the feeling she might know him better than most, and as he turns her palm upwards and presses his right hand into her left, he catches her eye. She wonders if maybe he knows her better than most. Which he does, is the realization.

The raised edges of their skin slide across each other, and the sensation makes her face warm with memories.

She never did this, with Will. Their past was so long that any number of things could have brought them together – the bit of shine around his neck the day she'd met him, the wooden sword she kept hidden in an old hat box (the hat long ago thrown away for it's age) in her closet, the moment he'd told her he loved her – and the scar only proved to remind them of sacrifice, and Jack Sparrow.

That sensation, though, does not remind her of Will Turner. She remembers the way she'd been tentative, at first, kissing him as if afraid at any moment he might strike out, and the way he'd curled his tongue around hers leisurely, following her lead. She remembers his hand curling around her smallish breast, and the flash of heat that made her press herself more firmly against him, not a care in the world for decorum anymore, putting her trust entirely in him, knowing, somehow, that he wouldn't hurt her, or he'd stop if she but suggested he do so. She remembers tangled legs and swift pain and the gasp of breath, and her name whispered in a sigh, and the way his eyes had been dark and heady, and something else she's not sure she wants to name, but that echoes in her head like love.

Which is silly, because it's Jack Sparrow she's thinking of, and even if he did love her, he'd do anything he could to hide it. She thinks.

It's funny, because with Will, she was always so sure – of his love, and her own – but it hadn't been enough. And now, she doesn't know if she loves Jack. And his feelings are even more of a mystery (or at least so she'll claim) – but what they have, this thing they are – it's more than enough. And she's not at all sure of it, but it's there, and she loves every moment of it. No regrets.

Jack presses closer, his face burrowing in her hair; chin digging into her shoulder just enough to tell her he's there. The crew pretends not to notice, and it seems odd to her that Jack is being so showy about a cuddle. If he was kissing her, or attempting to grope her, she'd have at least though it congruent – but Jack doesn't ever show what he's feeling – even when he shows feelings – and now his free hand is curling around her waist, pulling her closer to him, and he's nearly hugging her.

Pushing the confusion away, she inhales his scent; wind and sun and sweat and that hint of sea that kept her up at night the months it had taken to find him and bring him back from the edge of life and death.

He sighs contentedly into her ear, and she catches the glance one of the newer crewmembers sends them from the helm. If they were a foot to the left he'd have to crane his neck to do it, but Jack had handed the Pearl over to Jameson as she was making her way to the hull, and intercepted her before she'd reached her destination, so they are visible to more of the crew than not.

Which doesn't seem to bother Jack, so she doesn't know why it is suddenly such a big deal to her.

After a few more minutes, in which he uses the hand not pressed to hers to twirl a lock of hair, she slowly presses away from him. "Jack," she says in an undertone, "the entire crew is watching us. Jameson's likely to get us killed, from all the not-paying-attention he's doing."

His hands fall away, and she feels like keening a bit at the loss of contact. Her hair feels a bit limp, and suddenly her scar feels new, like it had hours after Will first bandaged it. Painful. "Yes, the threat of jagged rocks in the middle of the damn Atlantic sinking the Pearl is most certainly what's on your mind right now," he says bitingly, and this sharp sting is a lot higher up in her arm. She doesn't know what it is that's angered him so quickly, but she reaches out for him, wanting to know what's wrong, wanting to feel his calloused hands under her own weathering fingertips. He shrugs away from her in an instant, his face hardening, turning back towards the wheel, "Crow's nest, Jameson," he barks harshly, and the boy skitters away like a scolded puppy.

"Jack…" she says, not following him but waiting, waiting for something to indicate the wrong move she's made.

He doesn't answer her, even though she's sure he knows the question she's asking, so she moves away, descending the stairs in a huff and joining Gibbs at the rigging, where he's mending a torn sail with a slightly bent needle and very coarse thread. She offers to help, and so he gestures for her to follow him, gives her a few patches and points out the places where the sail has been worn thin. For the rest of the day she listens to Gibbs tell stories that can only be half true, and Jack steadfastly ignores her and refuses to talk to her, and she pricks her fingers with the needle and barely feels the sting, because the sting is present every time one of Joshamee Gibbs fairytale heroes dies a tragic death, or is lured in by the mermaid or the siren to his doom.

One of his stories, one Gibbs starts after a while of silence and not-so-furtive looks she makes toward the helm (though he's left the helm a few times for rum or tack, Jack's been up there all day, and most of the night before, because she'd fallen asleep next to him, but when she'd woken she was alone and his spot was cold) starts out with a girl sailing the waters of the Atlantic because of poor health, moving to the Caribbean for the better air with her father, a girl a bit too adventurous for her own good – and completely obsessed with pirates. She's positive the man's trying to make a legend of Elizabeth Swann when the story deviates, and the girl in the story marries the navy man, and settles down and has children, but is always looking toward the sea, in hopes of one day being taken away from it all.

She listens with bated breath as Gibbs weaves her the tale, and when the girl takes a plunge into the waters after flinging herself off the fort wall, she lets the breath loose, knowing she needs that air to keep herself into the story. But the girl (woman, now, she supposes) doesn't hit rocks, or even drown in the turgid bay water. She's saved by a crew of sailors who take her in on Captain's orders – but she never sees the Captain. She learns to sail, learns to navigate, learns that this is the life she's always wanted, but she never sees the Captain.

"…an' one day, she finally talks to the first mate, asks 'im why she's never seen the Cap'in, why the man who's saved her life won't show 'is face."

She pricks her finger again, but doesn't even look down to see if she's bleeding.

"And the first mate, well, he looks around, all secret-like, and he tells her, she doesn't get to see the Captain unless she's sure o' what she wants."

"What she wants?" Elizabeth asks, wondering what exactly the point of this story is.

"Aye, lass. Does she want to go back to port and see her children, 'er husband? Or does she want the life of the sea? The work, and the stench, and the heat of it all? What does she want?"

Elizabeth nods her head, waiting for Gibbs to continue the story. He doesn't, his eyes straying back to the patch he's sewing.

"Well what does she say? What does she choose?"

"Aye, that's the question, innit? What does she choose?"

She gives him a look of complete frustration. "That's it? That's the story? That's the end?"

Gibbs puts his needle down, and turns his eyes up to her. "Oh no, missy. No, that's only the beginning."

She thinks she'd like to rant and rave about cryptic pirates and their complete and utter inability to say what they mean, but her arms are tired and she's still reeling from Jack's sudden withdrawal from her.

It's getting dark out, and Gibbs tells her he'll finish the rest tomorrow, so she helps him fold up the canvas and bids him goodnight, and sees Jack shutting the cabin door when she turns.

She follows him, her chest a little tight like she's been running for too long, and is a little surprised to find the door unlocked.

Elizabeth stands just inside the doorway, watching Jack slowly remove his hat, and settle his effects on the table near his bed. They don't speak, and Jack begins to pick up things around the cabin he's never bothered with before. He's tidying up to avoid having to talk to her, but eventually, she knows there won't be anything to do.

Her heart pounds against her ribs painfully when the cabin is picked up and Jack still pretends to be looking for more work.

"Jack," she says, a little too tearfully for her liking, and he stops what he's doing, turning to look at her.

He doesn't make a move to respond, however.

"Jack, I was only thinking of you."

His gives her an indignant look, almost an insulted one. "No Elizabeth," she flinches at the lengthened name. "You were thinking of yourself, and worrying what it would look like for a pirate wench to have feelings. You want to be ruthless, fearsome Lizzie Swann – and you just don't realize that you need more than ruthlessness to be a good pirate."

He's right, she knows. She couldn't have thought of it herself – but sometimes Jack knows her better than she does herself. Still, she doesn't like to admit defeat. "And what of your reputation? Sleeping in your cabin is an entirely different thing than…than doing whatever it is we were doing." She won't classify it. She's not sure what he wanted it to be, and she therefore can't really name it.

"A woman is not going to make me any less pirate, least of all you. The most fearsome pirate in the world was felled by a woman, so that has nothing to do with it. Having you around only enhances my legend. But you… you're just part of the myth of Jack Sparrow."

He turns away from her, walking toward a shelf of books near his desk. His fingers brush over the spines, dances across titles she's read hundred of times.

"Is that what you want, Lizzie? Your own story?"

She struggles to understand what he's asking her. "I don't…"

Jack turns back toward her, and the way he looks at her makes her breath catch in her throat. God, the way she's been breathing lately she feels like someone's lacing her corset again. Instead of speaking, he takes a few steps toward his desk, finally sinking into his chair to cradle his head in his hands.

He sighs. "What do you want exactly, Elizabeth?"

"Nothing! I don't want anything I don't already have!"

"Really? Because it seems like this," he gestures grandly upwards, to his cabin and the Pearl, and also, she knows, he is gesturing to himself, "isn't quite enough for you. A ship, maybe, so you can sail off all on your onesies? Treasure? Fine dresses? Jewels? God knows I'd give 'em all to you if you even mentioned taking a liking to them." She sees his eyes turn toward the compass open in front of him, instinctively knowing already where it points, watches his eyes take in the direction of the arrow. She knows. It hasn't pointed to anything but her in a long time. "If you really wanted it, I'd probably give you the Pearl."

It isn't I love you. It isn't even a gentle like. But it's more profound a thing for him to say than any declaration of love or devotion. He sounds tired, and all she wants to do is see his eyes sparkle like they had that morning when their hands had touched. He thinks she doesn't want to be there, with him. That she's tired of being only a part of his story, and not her very own. He looks so goddamned vulnerable, as he wearily puts a quill back into a cubby of the organizer her father had presented him with when he'd forced Elizabeth to go back to Port Royal and visit the man.

She wonders exactly how long he's been thinking like this, and all those odd things that have seemed out of place start to piece together. The look he sometimes gives her as she blinks her eyes open against the dawn, and the reverent way he'd held her earlier. The man is very afraid of the day when he'll lose her.

"Jack, I'd never ask you to give up the Pearl."

It isn't the answer he wanted, but she's so strung up on trying to decipher what she's feeling that she doesn't know how to answer what he's asking.

"I don't want you to give up the Pearl," she tells him, and that isn't really adequate either.

"What do you want that? I might know you better than I know meself, Lizzie, but I can't read minds."

She sighs. "I don't know, Jack."

She does know. She knows exactly what she wants. She wants to stay here forever, and wake up each morning, blinking away the sunlight coming through the windows of the cabin, and watch Jack captain the Pearl, and raid, pillage, and plunder her weasley black guts out. She wants to fight with him, and make up, and she wants to be able to tell him anything.

She can tell him anything, but it doesn't seem enough, in her own mind.

"You do know. You know. But I can't know what it is unless you tell me."

A thought flashes unbidden in her mind, and the words tumble out before she really has a chance to think on them. "Do you love me?"

He doesn't answer her right away, and she is sure he's resolved not to when he opens his mouth. "As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words." He glances up at her through heavily lidded eyes, and the gaze from beneath his lashes has something unfamiliar in it. "Lizzie, I…" His hand goes into his hair, and she hears the tinkle of beads and bobbles, imagines her own hands easing the worry from her mind. "Yes," he says after a long moment, turning his face up to hers so she can see his glittering eyes. "Yes," he tells her a second time, more certainly.

She nods, and tentatively steps closer into the room. He watches her in complete silence, his eyes reminding her very much of a cat ready to pounce, or jump away at any moment.

She reaches him, grasping his hand, smiling at him wanly, a little bit shyly, and the tension ebbs from his shoulders, the lines hidden behind dark kohl relax, and he gives her an expectant look.

Instead of speaking, she kneels down in front of him and presses her chin into his knee, her free hand reaching for his back.

Something flashes in his eyes, and he pulls her up, suddenly, into his lap, and she curls into him, her head finally falling easily into the crook of his neck, her hand at his waist.

"I don't want my own story, Jack," she tells him, and doesn't add the words on the tip of her tongue. I want to be part of your story. But that, at least, Jack knows, and so she doesn't say them. She will, someday. Maybe. But for now, this is enough.

His hand drifts over her neck, and she can feel the scar against the soft skin there. In her own hand the pain seems to ebb away, and as he presses his nose into her hair, she tries to put words into what he is to her. He's everything, but the thing that echoes in her mind is home.

The quote Jack recites is from Two Gentleman of Verona