Two Little Birds
Which is Basically About How Love is Full of Bizarre and Annoying Surprises

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"Look at all this money!"

"I wonder who owns it…"

"Who cares? All we know now is that we're filthy bitch!"

"That's rich…"

—Mugen & Fuu (Samurai Champloo)

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Blasted compass…

The gangly, scarlet arrow began churning awkwardly, as if uncertain, a rusty scratching noise issuing forth to remind her of its old age. At first the magical contraption (because there was no other word Elizabeth could describe a compass that pointed to its wielder's utmost desires) pointed to one resolute direction—the direction to which she was certain led her to the one thing she desired more than anything in the world, towards the island upon which the Dead Man's Chest lay hidden and with it the solution to her dear William's freedom—but then it recoiled to another, as though cringing away from it's first, and finally stopping to a vague, and yet all together unmistakable path.

It was broken.

The bloody thing was broken, she realized, her brows furrowed as anger churned and bubbled within the bottom of her stomach.

And it was that blunder of Captain Jack Sparrow to blame. Then again, he did not look the type to be so careful with his effects—with the exception of the Black Pearl, himself, and that absolute vile liquor she knew as rum, which seemed totting up to the only three assets that the ruddy pirate could ever love and show genuine affection for. Elizabeth seethed at the thought.

Her anger, however, suddenly froze into that of pure horror, hovering dangerously above her heart before crashing down into the pit of her stomach in an atmosphere of blood-draining dread. That feeling, that one horrible sensation so briefly had passed through her. But it was not—she knew, in fact she was assured—it was most certainly not jealously. And over inanimate objects? Over a ship?

Who bloody cared just what and who that travesty of a captain cared for? She certainly didn't.

Sinking her head between her shoulders in disdain, and almost revulsion, she stared at the supposedly mystic compass for a moment longer. Her lips were set in a concentrated frown, glaring down upon the trinket almost as though willing its indecisive arrow to change course before, finally, she decided to glance upon the curious direction it had chosen with a deepening frown.

Behind her was the Captain's Chambers, but she'd daresay she had ever desired anything of use in there, much less her true heart's desire. The arrow centered awkwardly upon a diagonal direction behind her, almost leftward. She glanced towards it briefly, narrowing down to the helm just above the Captain's Chambers, but all that was before her was Captain Jack Sparrow looking out into the horizon, the wind fingering his already-tousled dreadlocks of hair and his hand over his eyes to shield them from the rays of the sun, his chest puffed up in resolve as if in a cheap attempt at masculinity.

Elizabeth quickly dismissed it as nothing, snorting at Jack's ridiculous posture, deciding quickly that she found absolutely nothing behind the drunkard but miles upon miles of twinkling ocean, and furiously looked down again at the arrow. It stubbornly remained at that same course.

Minutes passed.

At last, something hit her square in the head—not literally, but it might have bloody well done so.

Just as quickly, she whipped back to that very course in a double-take that nearly cost her whiplash. Jack remained in his theatrical pose, as though he knew very well that she was staring at him and gave, in what she could only assume with an annoyed roll of her eyes, was what Jack fancied as an enthralling impression to woo her. Her look of shock quickly dissolved to be replaced with haughtiness, but she stubbornly returned to the compass and strode forward—and, most importantly, much farther away from the insufferable dreadlocked pirate.

Now she was most certain that it was broken.

Of all possible directions, of all possible worldly desire's to be desired upon more than anything else in the world, it pointed only to a man—nay, a pirate. And not just any pirate, mind you. Oh no—it rolled and obnoxiously remained towards the Jack Sparrow.

Sorry—Captain Jack Sparrow.

She could not stand that cheeky slip of a brute, and yet it pointed towards him so often she was ready to toss the godforsaken item overboard with all her might and frustration combined.

This was not happening. This couldn't possibly happen to her. She seethed, and concentrated hard—concentrated with a moderate amount of willpower on restraining herself from turning around to take in the overwhelming sight of the Captain, and seize another long, long look. It was most difficult, seeing as the compass seemed to force her to stare between fleeting moments where Jack Sparrow seemed too busy to notice.

She bristled, angry with herself. Whiney.

Oh, Will…

Wasn't he the only reason for her being aboard such a legendary pirate ship, bunking with a bunch of pirates, and risking her very life to find the accursed pirate 'Chest that would surely set him free? Hadn't that been the reason for her parading about in men's clothing, stowing away from ship to ship, fooling simpleton's into believing in the clairvoyant, and traveling through the wild streets of the pirate-playground known as Isla Tortuga? How can that not prove that Will was what she desired more than anything in the world? If that was not an impulsive act of love, then she was sure there was no such thing as love at all…

Or had it been something else that drove her to act upon her blatant impulse?

Any sensible woman would keep to her quiet dignity and wait for the trouble to pass, to take the opportunity to ride in a ship and head safely toward England as her dear father had wished. A lady was certainly not impulsive, and did not act upon instinct at all…

And yet…

She was not a lady.

Elizabeth studied herself, and the past actions and choices she had made during the prior months. She was in a pirate ship, with pirates, dressed as a male pirate, a shoddy tricorn hat carelessly nested atop her head, and a pistol and rapier firmly clinging to her waist as though it were all she had left in the world to be proud of…

But it was all to save Will, she reminded herself. It was the entire reason why she had to reduce herself to such drastic conditions…

And yet the more she stole glimpses of him, just fleeting stares, the more she feared that she believed the compass was in fact very much functional. But it was in the back of her mind, hidden in the dark and pulsating like the very bloody heart that lay dormant in the sad prison that was the Dead Man's Chest, frightening her with its writhing life.

Elizabeth carefully looked over her shoulder, her movements deliberate and especially slow, like a bashfully careful doe. But Jack was no longer looking into the horizon. He was looking straight into her, his deep chocolate-hued eyes piercing her like a blade, cutting through her clothes, flesh, and bones until it finally touched her soul. She felt completely naked under his stare.

Jack grinned, as though he had read her thoughts. Elizabeth stared helplessly. That effortless grin flaunted the dazzling array of his golden-and-white teeth, and it was a knowing grin—taunting her, telling her that she had lost a part of herself to him and there was absolutely no way to take it back. Her heart lurched blissfully.

It was all his fault indeed…