Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and dialogue belong to Disney.

A/N: Taking a brief respite from chapter ten of BDaL, I was poking around YouTube and ended up re-watching the two deleted island scenes from CotBP. I decided to give them an in-depth look, blending them with the scene in the middle that did make it to the final cut. Hopefully I've managed to go beyond just a play-by-play of what happens in the scenes. And for those of you with a taste for something a little more raunchy, check out the next chapter! Thanks for reading!

Also, if anyone has any insights into what exactly Jack would wear under his boots, please let me know! I did a bit of research and finally decided that he would almost have to wear stockings of some sort, but if anyone else has other thoughts, I would love to hear them.

Truth and Her Consequences
By Sinnamon Spider

Scene One: Island in the Sun

His first thought was of how beautifully the soaking wet shift clung to her body. The drenched white fabric was plastered to her skin and had turned slightly transparent, enough so that he could see that the alabaster skin of her hands and face continued across her long limbs and slim torso, just as he'd imagined.

He slogged along behind her through the surf, all thoughts of mutiny and marooning chased from his head by the ever-so-womanly way her hips swung as she led the way onto the white sand of the beach.

But the wretchedly familiar sight of the island before them dragged him, kicking and screaming, back to reality, and he flung the rope that had bound his wrists onto the ground with a vicious movement and whirled around to watch his precious ship grow smaller and smaller.

"That's the second time I've had to watch that man sail away with my ship," he said dully. Silence fell, until the next sound he heard was the gentle shift of her bare feet across the sand as she walked away from him, heading off along the beach.

She would soon find out that the island was completely inhabited, and far too far away from any other island in the area to hope for an escape. All things he knew only too well. He squinted after her until she disappeared around the bend.

He moved further up the beach, each step squishing unpleasantly, and immediately removed his boots, stockings, and waistcoat, dropping them onto the sand. He then untied his sash, wringing the water from the material before placing it on top of the coat. Next was the shirt, which required a bit more effort to wrestle the water from. He briefly considered giving his trousers the same treatment, but decided against it; after all, the island was really not very big, and although the idea of the impossibly proper Miss Swann seeing him in the flesh was a tantalizing one, he preferred to save that sight for a more opportune moment. Mind now brimming with very improper images, he fought his way back into the damp shirt and tied his sash around his waist.

He ventured to the shade of the trees in search of sticks, which proved to be harder than expected, seeing as the most of the resident trees were palms. But eventually he located a number of serviceable limbs and returned to his pile of discarded clothing. Jamming two of the longer sticks into the sand, he hung his sopping boots upside-down to dry, then did the same with his stockings. His waistcoat spread out on the sand, he then turned to the task of dissembling his pistol to dry that out.

As he carefully examined the single shot that he had refused to use the last time he was on this cursed island, he idly wondered whether he'd be forced to use it this time.

Movement caught his eye. Elizabeth had returned, and looked most unhappy on seeing her own footprints still left in the sand. She stopped in front of him, staring out at the tracks she had left.

"It's really not all that big, is it?" he commented, returning his attention to his pistol. He could feel her eyes on him.

"If you're going to shoot me, please do so without delay," she said dryly. He looked up from his work to contemplate her sullen face. Perhaps he would be using the shot sooner than he'd imagined…

He rested his elbows on his propped-up knees, leaning forward. "Is there a problem between us, Miss Swann?"

She took a step toward him, outrage replacing petulance on her pretty face. "You were going to tell Barbossa about Will in exchange for a ship," she accused. He gestured with his pistol. "We could use a ship," he pointed out. "The fact is I was going to not tell Barbossa about bloody Will in exchange for a ship, because as long as he didn't know about bloody Will, I had something to bargain with, which now no one has, thanks to bloody stupid Will."

He clambered to his feet, pleased to see that she was looking appropriately taken aback. She dropped her eyes. "Oh," she said, her voice revealing that he had just stolen the wind from her sails, so to speak.

"Oh," he mimicked unkindly. That made her look up sharply, and her saucy mouth opened again. "He still risked his life to save ours," she snapped.

"Hah!" he exclaimed, thoroughly disgusted with her rosy outlook. He turned his back on her, striding off into the trees. He could hear her chasing after him. "So we have to do something to rescue him!"

The girl was simply impossible. He turned back around, waving his hands in a shooing motion. "Off you go, then! Let me know how that turns out." He returned to his journey across the sand and grass. She was still following him. "But you were marooned on this island before, weren't you? So we can escape in the same way you did!" She had caught up to him when he whirled on her again.

"To what point and purpose, young missy?" he demanded. "The Black Pearl is gone. Unless you have a rudder and a lot of sails hidden in that bodice, – " he gestured to her bosom, which he absently noted was still pleasingly wet – "unlikely, young Mister Turner will be dead long before you can reach him."

He had reached his goal: a particular tree that leaned just so. He fisted his hand and knocked on the trunk. Her voice rose above the hollow echo he had been listening for. "But you're Captain Jack Sparrow!" she exclaimed, almost pleading now. She continued to follow him, despite his attempts to ignore her. He concentrated on counting his wide strides from the hollow tree to the patch of sand that bowed promisingly under his feet. He jumped up and down. "You vanished from under the eyes of seven agents of the East India Company! You sacked Nassau port without even firing a shot! Are you the pirate I've read about or not?" She stepped in front of him. "How did you escape last time?"

His vain heart thrilled to the idea that she had read about his exploits. He had a flash of imagination: Elizabeth, younger than she was now, hazel eyes intent on a sheaf of papers she had stolen from her father's desk, delicate fingers tracing over the words that immortalized him in history, her secret pirate's heart memorizing every escape, every attack, every escapade. But her mention of his deeds at this time only served to remind him that this grand escape had been far less romantic than the story he – but mostly Gibbs – had spread across the Caribbean.

He hesitated, but frustration won out and he told her. "Last time, I was here a grand total of three days, all right?" He moved away from her, partially to open the trapdoor over the rumrunners' secret cache, but mostly to escape her expectant expression. He flung he trapdoor open and stepped down into the musty trench. "Last time, the rumrunners used the island as a cache, came by, and I was able to barter passage off. From the looks of things, they've long been out of business." He stooped to retrieve a number of the bottles, cradling them like children in his hands. "Probably have…your bloody friend Norrington…to thank for that." Rum in hand, he clambered out of the trench.

"So that's it, then," she said, and he could hear the beginning of tears in her voice. Her fierce eyes followed him. "That's the secret grand adventure of the infamous Jack Sparrow. You spent three days lying on a beach, drinking rum?"

He stared down into those accusing eyes, knowing she was waiting for him to smile and say that he had been joking, to save her childhood image of him from ruin. He was tarnishing before her, but he had nothing to tell her. He settled for shrugging easily, motioning with the bottles. "Welcome to the Caribbean, love," he said simply, brushing past her back toward the beach.

As always, she chased after him. "So," she said vehemently, breathless from anger and disillusionment, "is there any truth to the other stories?" She stood in front of him, lovely in her rage.

But he was tired of this snip of a girl challenging everything he was, and it was without pity that he sneered at her now. He let the rum bottles slip from his hands into the soft sand. "Truth?" he repeated darkly. He raised his right arm, pulling his tattered sleeve away to reveal the raised brand just below his sparrow tattoo. Then he switched arms, showing a vicious network of scars on the inside of his left elbow. Finally, he pulled the open neck of his shirt aside and watched her eyes widen at the sight of the twin gunshot wounds on his chest. "No truth at all," he said sarcastically, dropping his arms, coldly rewarded by her wide eyes and pale face.

He collapsed to the sand, anger suddenly sapped from him, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. He had been marooned far too often for his liking. Some might imply that that made him an inferior pirate, but he preferred to think that he simply fell in with a neverending parade of cowardly pestilent traitors.

"We can stay alive a month, maybe more. Keep a weather eye open for passing ships and our chances are fair." He raised a bottle of rum to his lips. It had aged perfectly.

She was still harping on the whelp, albeit with much less determination. "And what about Will?" she asked, but her voice was tinged with hopelessness. "We have to do something."

He raised a finger, then corked the bottle. "You're absolutely right," he agreed, rolling the bottle down the slope of the beach toward her. It bumped into her feet and she stared down at it. He lifted the other bottle, a short, squat affair. "Here's luck to you, Will Turner." He swallowed a mouthful. It was heavenly.

To his surprise, she stooped and picked up the bottle from the surf, weighing it experimentally in her hand before uncorking it. She crossed the sand to sit beside him with a sigh. "Drink up, me hearties, yo ho," she said wearily, contemplating the bottle and then raising it to her lips. He cast a glance at her, impressed that she swallowed the mouthful without wincing at its strength, but more interested in her words. "What was that, 'Lizabeth?" he asked.

She shot him a glare. "It's Miss Swann," she snapped. Clearly not all her rancour had evaporated. He raised his hands in submission, looking away.

"Nothing," she continued with a sigh. "Just a song I learned as a child when I actually thought it would be exciting to meet a pirate."

He ignored the barb. "Let's hear it," he commanded. She glared at him again. "No," she said, all childish petulance once more.

"C'mon, we've got the time," he cajoled. "Let's have it."

"No!" she squawked, quailing under his eyes and looking away. "I'd have to have a lot more to drink," she said, almost to herself. But he was far too much of a scoundrel to miss such an invitation. He also had not failed to notice the way her slender fingers caressed the neck of the bottle. He suppressed a shiver at the idea of her fingers caressing him in such a way…

He leaned fractionally toward her. "How much more?"