A/N: Yes, another Pirates fic. I didn't intend to write it at all – I actually asked my friend Liz (XxIcexX) to write it for me – but then in a sudden fit of restless energy (and homework I wanted to avoid) I tried it out. I love the song to pieces, because the lyrics are so fantastic, so I guess you could say that I wasn't able to resist. So here it is; I don't know where the hell I got the idea for this, but that's what happens when you read too many fantastic Sparrabeth fics in the span of two days. Enjoy yourselves here, folks.
Title:Collide
Song By:Howie Day
Length: One-shot
Ship: Both Sparrabeth & Willabeth
Rating: PG-13
Dedication: For Liz – you know you're the only one I'd write Pirates for, don't you?
Disclaimer:Maybe in a world where Sparrabeth actually happened, Lord Beckett turned into a jar of dirt, and Jack started tap-dancing on the table in the Brethren Court's meeting room would I actually own the people/places in this story…
Other Information: Takes place mid-AWE, just after Elizabeth discovers that her father is dead, just before the whole 'up is down' deal. Excessive pronoun usage – you've been warned. The Jack in this fic is a little mercurial and moody, and Elizabeth is kind of weird too. I'm sorry if you don't like them, but forgive me – I'm not a regular Pirate writer, and when I get an idea, I break rules. That's just how it goes.
Edited slightly as of 1/28/08.
The dawn is breaking
A light shining through
You're barely waking
And I'm tangled up in you
Early morning sunlight – a pale, musty hue that reminded one of dusty gold – attempted to shine through the thick glass window of the Black Pearl. Unfortunately, it was a particularly cloudy, sultry day which made little opportunity for the sun to do its job, but the room was still somehow splashed with a bit of light – enough to announce the arrival of dawn, but also enough to cast shadows across the tiny cabin. The bed, which wasn't too far from the window, could now be seen as the mess it was; but blankets were not the only things lying upon it.
Black hair weaved into tight braids and wavy, golden-brown locks were spread across the milky pillows, some of them interlocking with each other, and the two bodies to whom they belonged to were curled up, not leaving too many larger-sized gaps between them. The dark-haired man was already awake, and had been for several minutes, but he was lying motionless, watching the woman next to him. He had arrangend himself on his side, his hands still for the first time in a long time, and she was in a loose fetal position, loosely fitting into his shape; their shoulders were bare and touching – his rough and tanned, hers slender and pale – but the rest was covered by the blankets. Their legs were somewhat tangled together, but he didn't make any move to change this fact; he was comfortable as he was.
His breathing quiet and shallow, he stared at her intently. She was serene in her slumber – angelic, even – and he liked seeing her that way. Her delicate features seemed ten times more beautiful in this honey-gray light, when she didn't have to fret about every insignificant thing that came under her nose. During her waking hours, there were always worried lines on her young face – lines he didn't want to see. She was a lot of things and had done plenty to deserve them, but he had never wanted to see her unhappy. That was why he had snuck into her cabin last night – Will Turner had seen fit to keep them far away from each other, for reasons he didn't like to say aloud but did anyway with his openly disapproving eyes, but that never bothered him. He had gone to see her, and brought her back to his room, thinking that she needed company – she had recently discovered her father had died. He could remember when his own mother had died, which was why he had been quick to visit her the moment Will's eyes closed for the night. She hadn't said much, but she didn't have to – he understood exactly what was going through her mind. Without thinking, he softly caressed her cheek with his index finger, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it at all, even when her enormous eyes began to crack open.
Seeing her wake up was like watching a baby bird hatch from a nest. He'd witnessed that happen once, when he was young; a bird's nest had found its way onto his ship once, and a small collection of eggs had been cozily nestled within the twigs. The mother bird had gone to find food for a few hours, so he sat down and observed as the first, tiny cracks appeared on the speckled shell. Several more cracks followed, and within a few minutes, a tiny beak was visible; a couple more minutes after that, an entire, ugly, feathered little creature stepped out into the world. It was disgruntled, and had to get its bearings for a moment, and it was vulnerable – not unlike her. She had to take a second to remember where she was and why she was there, and like that bird, he gazed at her while she sorted things out. He didn't stop stroking her skin, and she didn't stop him from doing so, but it was obvious that she wasn't sure if she was making the right decision. Her eyes were a weathered mahogeny, and the light reflected exquisitely off of them; she smelled sweet, like vanilla, and he tried to find his voice to tell her so, but the remark was lost somewhere in his throat. All he wanted to do was take her in, let her gain proper consciousness, and then see what her reaction would be. He was guessing it wouldn't be a good one, but he didn't mind. Not yet.
I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again
"Elizabeth." He said her name with a scratchy tone – hoarse, but not without a small amount of the reverence he knew he had for her.
"Jack." Her voice was equally throaty with sleep, but there was an element of apprehension to it that made his ears prick.
"Good morning, love." A grin played at the corners of his mouth. "Did you sleep well?"
She sighed, the grief that had been so evident the night before returning in full force. "No," she lied.
"Want to tell me about it?" He hadn't shifted at all, but she was in the process of forcing herself to; she was sitting up, hugging her knees, with the covers still over her front but leaving the wide expanse of her back exposed.
"No," she said again. "I don't. I shouldn't even be here."
"But you are," he pointed out.
"I was upset yesterday," she tried to defend herself. "I was liable to anything, and you knew it."
"Indeed I did," he said. "Would you say you're less liable now, then, since you've had time to…strengthen your defenses?"
She didn't answer, and his smile was teasing. He decided not to verbalize what he was thinking, so instead, he sat up as well and came closer to her. Without any kind of hesitation to speak of, he nibbled on the fleshy cartilidge of her ear, and he could feel her straighten up. He knew exactly why. Inspired, he rested his head in the hollow between her face and shoulder, and turned his gaze up to scrutinize her closely, looking for any morsel of emotion. If she did feel something, she wasn't showing it; she continued to sit, inanimate, and he waited.
A few minutes ticked by in this fashion, before she stood up unexpectedly, leaving him and the blanket behind her. She picked up her discarded clothing from the floor, fluid and cool as anything, and he regarded this with wry, grim amusement. She pulled on her pants first; her shirt was still in her hands, and this struck him as rather interesting. He got out of bed as well, and made his way to where his own clothes were – very near hers. He slipped on his own pants, but he too left his shirt off. He bent down to get his shoes, while she tried to take her own, and his hand made contact with her waist. Even if it was an accident, he didn't have any doubts that he liked it; they stood up properly, and his hands met her waist properly. She simply stared at him though, unresponsive to his touch, and this frustrated him – he was alone with her, and they were not waging a war, like normal, but she was wasting the possibilities of the circumstance – all she was doing was shying away from his hesitant advances. He refused to be maddened with desire, as she seemed to want him to be, however, so he let go of her and stepped away to give himself room to change.
When he was dressed completely – accessories and all – he turned back to face her. Her shirt was still not on; she hadn't appeared to have moved at all. The clouds outside of their tiny space had cleared oh so slightly, leaving more room for sunlight, and she remained in her initial spot – standing near the window. She was bathed in what little effulgence the day had yet to offer, and her expression was passive. Her lips were slightly parted, as though she was about to say something, but she didn't; alternatively, she walked over to him, and she suddenly kissed him. It wasn't a steamy, passionate one, filled with animal wanting like most of theirs had been a few hours ago, but it was one to set herself at peace. Her mouth was slightly chapped, but he kissed it anyway, enjoying the familiar feel against his own. He'd grown rather accustomed to being in this position. He put his arms around her, and she was indifferent to it; to test his limits and out of sheer curiosity, his hand went from her waist to her breast, but still no complaint. This was different, but in a good way. The smell of vanilla was back. His other hand went to her hair, tangling in it and pulling her in even closer, if it was possible, and they remained this way for many minutes until she gasped for air.
At this point, she bit her lip and crossed the length of the room for her shirt. He lingered by the wall as she put it back on; when she was finished, he smirked at her – he always did so when he was unsure of what his next move was going to be. She exhaled slowly, and said, "We can't be doing this, you know."
"Why ever not?" This was so typical of her; she always complained about how she couldn't possibly indulge in him the way she was, but sometimes she did anyway. She had last night, at least.
"Because…" Her voice trailed off for a moment, but then she said, "Because I have a promise to keep."
"To Will." He stated this as the fact that it was, rather than the reality he often chose to overlook. He didn't sound bitter, because he wasn't; what she had with Will was hardly relevant to him, especially now.
"Yes," she said. "I'm sorry, Jack."
This was the second time she'd said this to him, and like the first time, he didn't believe her. He doubted if she even believed herself. She was not the type of person to be sorry – she was like him that way. He was rarely ever sorry either.
This thought gave him license to snort loudly at her. "Of course you are, pet."
She kept her eyes on him – those misleadingly demure eyes that were anything but what they appeared to be – but he had nothing left to say to her. He left the cabin without looking back, but he knew there was more reason to the action than the simple derision he was currently experiencing for her. No, it was really because it had just occured to him that when she ran off with the whelp, as he knew she would end up doing, he would miss her – miss what they had done. Having her around – whether in thoughts or in physical presense – had become almost a constant in his life over the past months, seeing as he was always out to save her though she didn't particularly merit it. He knew he felt something for her, but he hated calling it love; he didn't fall in love with anyone. It wasn't in his nature, but when she was around, there was something undeniably powerful flowing through his veins. He didn't put a name to the feeling yet, out of fear that it would end up being that stupid word 'love,' but he knew he would have to sort it out soon. They were almost out of World's End, and he would probably have much to do, whatwith the mess the crew had managed to make in his absence; he would have no time to consider his delicate emotions for the woman he had left inside, something he wasn't sure he would altogether grieve the loss of.
He sighed as he wandered around the familiar deck of his ship, admiring the ocean around him; he was in a particularly complicated situation at the moment, but he was sure he would make it out all right. He always did. He closed his eyes and breathed in the salty air, allowing it to fill him up as she had done a few minutes ago – it was a gorgeous morning out at sea, and he wasn't going to waste it thinking about engaged bonnie lasses. He had some rum-related affairs to attend to as a much-welcomed alternative.
Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills my mind
I somehow find, you and I
Collide
I'm quiet, you know
You make a first impression
But I've found I'm scared to know I'm always on your mind
Inside his cabin, she still remained, sitting on the bed and fingering the footboard. It was made of fine wood, delicately crafted and sturdily constructed. She wondered where he'd got it from. She often found herself wondering things like that; she was filled with this morbid sort of curiosity about the mysterious captain who had stolen her away the other evening. The more time she spent with him, the less she actually knew about him – he was very good at making her feel like he'd revealed so much to her when he really hadn't. She wondered if he did it consciously or not; with him, she could never tell. It irked her, how little he let on about himself, but it also gave her reason to spend more time with him, to gently crack at him a little more. She was getting the closest anyone else had to finding out what he was about, and she wanted to exploit this chance as much as she possibly could. She didn't know how long it would be before he tired of her, so she had to work fast – too bad she didn't have a clue where to begin.
With a wane sigh – her third today by this point – she lay back down on the bed, her hair fanning out on the mattress and her mind whirling, faraway. Last night had been something; she had to give him that much. She didn't know how many wenches he had been with through his years, but he certainly had experience. Like an expert, he had them both out of their clothes, and he had kissed her with a fervor that had blown her away. She had been numb – her father was dead, her fiance did not trust her, and there was a pirate on top of her in the middle of the night. It had been overwhelming, but at the same time, something in her had released. It was as though they hadn't been themselves for those hours; she had done things that would make those closest to her faint with horror, and he had said things that he probably would never to say in front of her again. Things about needing her, about thinking incessantly about her. They almost frightened her with their concupiscence. Those whispered words in the dark had been monumental at the time, but now, the very things that had captivated her only puzzled her – had he truly meant what he had said? She thought she had smelled rum on him – he could have been intoxicated – yet, somehow, a part of her doubted it had been the drink talking to her; it had been him, through and through, and nothing was able to make her think otherwise. Some might call her fanciful, but she disagreed; it was unexplainable, but she had a strong feeling about him. She knew she was probably the only one left who seriously thought he could be a good person if he wanted to be, which explained why she felt so torn at the moment, but the notion was all she had to go on – all she had to justify the atrociously high levels of lust she harbored for him. She half-hoped that if she held onto her faith hard enough, her wish would somehow come true; it was silly, but at least she could admit it now to herself. She hadn't been able to do that before.
She stared up at the ceiling, and as she did, her thoughts drifted to Will. Her lovely, innocent, naïve Will. He would die if he had known what she'd been up to the night before. He would probably try to sword-fight Jack, which would no doubt entertain him. He might even call off the wedding they were somehow never able to properly have. Guiltily, she kind of hoped he would; it would put her more at ease, alleviate her confusions. She would have more time to make a better decision. That would be nice – her decisions were always hasty, and that promoted mistakes. She'd made enough mistakes next to letting Will believe in her to last four generations worth of people, and the reason for most of them was time – the lack of it.
Take last night, for example – she had satiated her desperation on various aspects of her life by making love as though she had but a stolen hour, rather than a stolen night, which plainly contributed to how awful she felt in the morning. When she had to chain him to the mast of the Pearl to save the lives of everyone on board, she had kissed him on a split-second idea, and that one foolish act had created a fog of distrust among both him and Will – a fog she desperately wanted to clear, but couldn't. Sometimes, he acted as if she had never temporarily killed him, but in her heart, she knew something in him still held a grudge on her. She expected as much, but that didn't stop her from hurting because of it anyway. There wasn't enough time to make it right, either. Everything happened so fast for her that she only figured out what she should have done after she made the wrong choice – time was almost never on her side. Even today, she should have wormed out more conversation from him, asked him how he felt about her at a time when he was softest, so that she could use the knowledge to draw a wiser conclusion. She couldn't now, which she didn't like, but perhaps if she thought hard enough, something might come to her. It was doubtful, but sometimes, the tides could change in a tight spot where things feel hopeless – he had taught her that. He'd taught her a lot, actually, and she found herself next wondering what her life would have been like without him.
She smirked to herself at this point; she knew she was still guilty of constantly recalling that first time she'd met him, down in Port Royal when she had fainted from the effect of her corset. She had been quiet back then, quiet about what she wanted in life and about what she was thinking or feeling, because that was how she was supposed to be. That had earned her a marriage proposal she was forced to accept, and a meeting with rocks that could potentially rip her to shreds. However, it had also brought her to him; he had saved her and even months later, she could remember every single detail about that rescue mission, down to the fishy but highly attractive scent that filled the immediate air around him. She'd secretly enjoyed it, though no one could have gotten her to admit it. That wild, yet mysterious pirate with the most handsomly intriguing brown eyes, on top of her after stripping her of her dress and corset – yes, he had definitely made an impression that day, and the impression would never leave her alone. She remembered him as the man who wasn't afraid of what society fancied as acceptable – he had done what he wanted that day, and that stuck with her. The freedom. She'd always wanted it, whether or not she acknowledged it in her head. She'd had a short stint with it, but it hadn't been much – as she'd said, time was almost never on her side.
However, she wasn't able to dwell more on this miserable theory; she realized that she would never get anywhere simply dwelling. She had to do something about those theories she was making – the odds on her making the right judgment for her next move were bleak, but she had to fight them, just like he always did. There was still time enough to have a go at it, which was a rarity, and she knew she would have to figure him out, see what his plan was so that she could mold her own. This was probably not going to be a successful task, knowing her damned luck, but she wouldn't know the outcome until she gritted her teeth and tried to talk to him.
And that was exactly what she did.
It was probably only six thirty in the morning when she went outside, looking for him. None of the other members of the crew were awake yet – they were still sailing, somewhat aimlessly, and he was sitting on a bench he had dragged up to the wheel with a spread of maps around him. He was muttering to himself, lost in what he was going – this was the image she'd lately become accustomed to with him. He was determined to get out of this godforsaken realm, and he was stubbornly staring at those pictures until he got what he was looking for. What that was, he didn't even know, but he thought that when the time came, he'd find out instinctively. He didn't hear her soft footsteps pad over to him, but he definitely noticed her when she sat down beside him. He didn't pay her much attention, however, and continued to turn dials around, looking for hidden messages. She felt very slightly intimidated by his silence, which she was sure was the purpose, so she attempted to get herself in control again by speaking to him.
"So, how far are you?" she asked.
"Not very far," he told her. "It's supposed to help me, but it's so bloody vague." He glowered at it, as though it had done him personal wrong – which, in a way, it sort of had.
"May I see it?" she requested.
He eyed her curiously. "And why would you of all people need to do that?"
"I want to help," she said honestly.
He surprised them both, then, by handing her the paper he had been inspecting. She turned over a few ways, and stared at it, but she, too, could see nothing helpful about the map. It wasn't even a map – it was a code that supposedly would give them something to work with. Obviously, it wasn't meant for anybody except those who knew how to crack it, and though he was not one of those people, he was working on it anyway. He was just that type of person.
She gave it back to him, however, and said, "I don't know."
He gave her a look to indicate that she was not alone in that response, but went back to it anyway, giving the biggest dial another spin. He was ignoring her, and she didn't know why. He had been flirting with her only moments ago – what was the problem now? Had she offended him? Most likely, yes, she had, but she didn't know for certain – that was why she paused, but said, "Jack, can I see your compass?"
He squinted at her like he had never seen anything quite like her before. "I don't have my compass right now, love."
"Oh." Feeling stupider by the second, she inquired, "Why not?"
He shrugged. "Why do you need it?"
"I have to check something," she said quickly.
His eyebrow rose rather attractively upon hearing this. "Do you, lass?"
She nodded.
"What is so necessary for you to check at this hour of the day, Miss Swann? Pray tell," he said, somewhat seriously but somewhat sardonically.
"Nothing," she said defiantly.
"Really." He snorted. "Really, 'Lizbeth, you shouldn't lie; you're lousy at it." He leaned closer to her, keeping his eyes on her. "Tell me now – do I sense something is wrong between us?"
She felt a tremor of pleasure go through her upon hearing him say her name – something that should probably not happen – but she pushed it aside in her mind and said to him, "Yes, there is something wrong."
"What is it?" He came even closer, his stare never leaving her face.
"I don't know…what I want," she said carefully. "I'm confused."
"I'm no good at introspection, darling," he said, smirking. "You should ask Turner if you want help with that."
"Well, the thing is, I'm mostly confused because I don't know what you want," she elaborated.
"What I want?" This somehow annoyed him – in all probability, it was because she had succeeded in briefly disarming him. "Why do you care what I want?"
His sudden irritation threw her off the tangent she had been going on. "Because…because you're you. I should know what you want."
"Why?" He kept his tone semi-conversational, but the look in his eyes intensified – what the bloody hell was wrong with this woman?
She bit her lips, trying to think of an intelligent way to state what was going on – she had dug herself into an enormous hole right there, and she wasn't sure how to reverse the effect. So, in desperation, she spun him a knotted and partially-true clarification on exactly why she should know what he wanted – a clarification that consisted of what her rights were, what she thought he ought to do, what she had done for him. When she got to the last bit, that was when he snapped; he had been listening to her for the past few minutes with partial disbelief and partial aggravation, but when he had to listen to her preach about what she had done for him, he couldn't take it anymore.
"Love, you have already done plenty for me, I know," he said, his eyes dark with his mercurial fury. "You lied to me, you murdered me, you forced me to go out of my way to save you twice –"
"But last night, I also gave you what you wanted from the very first day," she interrupted him irately, losing her temper as well.
He stopped then; he couldn't believe the nerve of her. "How do you know for certain I wanted that?" he asked acidly, putting delicate stress on 'I' and 'you' to enhance both his fairly mild outrage, his doubt in her perception abilities, and his half-sarcasm.
"Please, Jack; every female that has ever come in your presense knows what you want," she said scornfully.
At this, he was no longer amused; he was angry. She slept with him, and then she tried to sneer at him? No, she wouldn't get away with it. He would ensure that she wouldn't. "Maybe," he said in a frightening near-hiss. "But that wasn't all I wanted from you."
For the first time, something in her expression faltered – she only just realized the extent of her mistake. She cursed herself for being so idiotic; of course, she knew exactly what would get him up the wall, and out of sheer frustration from not having the upper hand on their dialogue, she had said it. "What else could you possibly want from me?" she asked, both hoping for and fearing the answer he would give.
His eyes sparkled with malice, but he did not respond to her inquiry. Rather, he slid towards her, slick as a jungle cat, and pushed her down against the hard wood of their bench. He tilted her chin up to look into her eyes, and then he kissed (or, more accurately, ravaged) her – brusque and overbearing. She attempted to pull away, but something in her wouldn't let her, and he wasn't exactly obliging either; she was stuck, trapped by her own stupidity and cravings. He had her exactly where he wanted her. His tonuge easily flitted between her lips to acquaint with her own, and she seemed to be fused with him – unable to speak, unable to pull away, unable to do anything but deepen the gesture. He was doing it to torture her, to give her too much and then abruptly steal it all back, but he didn't know what it was doing to her; her back arched against the solid seat, shivers going up and down her spine, with her hands digging into the cloth on his arms without any kind of conscious effort. When he wrenched his lips away from her (far too soon, in her opinion), he kept his mouth but centimeters from hers with much of his weight crushing her, and whispered, "I want all of you."
"But what if I don't want you?" She was breathless, her eyes drinking him in and secretly waiting for him to kiss her again, and he knew from the tiny glimmer in her stony eyes she was bluffing. She did want him, almost as much as he wanted her, and it showed all the way through her – as though she was transparent.
"Then you'll have to persuade me you don't," he said into her lips, nipping at them slightly more vigorously than intended, but driving her mad as originally intended. In a way, this was his final revenge for what she had done to him with Davy Jones and the Kraken; hurting her, scaring her, but claiming her all the same was the only way to get under her skin, and he had done his job well.
She put the tip of her tongue behind her row of upper teeth, closed her eyes against his penetrating stare, and took a breath, dizzy. "Maybe I will persuade you."
She tried to purse her lips to protect herself from him, but his teeth held fast to her bottom lip. "Maybe you won't," he said when he let go after a few seconds.
Her breathing was hot, irregular and unable to be anything besides that, and she was nervous by his proximity to her, but something in her was incontrovertibly excited – a part of her that resided in the bowels of her mind, untouched and unexplored until this very moment. She was not a little lady anymore, and she now ached for things she normally did not think about, and they were scarily close to being within her grasp. She knew he was playing with her; that this, to him, was mere flirtation – basic, a passing fancy – but it felt like so much more. He was still awaiting her response, and she didn't really have one. She only looked at him, trying not to be too peturbed by the flat ferocity and hunger of his dark eyes. He took pleasure from grazing against her mouth for a few extra minutes, and she took the same amount of pleasure as well, but as unexpectedly as he had attacked her, he got off of her to properly work with his maps again, not bothering to help her up. Just like that, he had switched from terrifying monster to map-expert. She sat up herself, and she wasn't sure what to do next. It wasn't as though he would help her, either – no, he much preferred letting her suffer, but rescuing her at the very last second. He wasn't like Will at all that way; he didn't feel the need to protect her from the world because the world was never going to protect her when he couldn't. She both loved and hated that about him – it demonstrated both his apathy and his genuine brand of assistance – and she found, as she sat there by his uninterested form, that she was questioning whether or not she was willing to take how he treated her.
It wasn't because she didn't love him – that, she did. She loved him a lot, actually. The truth, when she came down to it, was that while there was definitely something there for him, she couldn't keep up with him. She couldn't stay with him. He was especially loopy right now, seeing as he had just come from the end of the world and was not in the mood to lift the antipathy he held on her, but that didn't excuse him from making her feel like she was thrown off into the middle of a vicious hurricane. Will was so much safer in that sense – he never overwhelmed her. His lack of challenge had seemed like a bad thing before, but it was more welcome than anything by this point – Jack could say he wanted her all he liked, but he would continue to challenge both him and her in their time together, and she wasn't sure if she could handle it. With him, she felt so right, yet so wrong; so happy yet so damaged. She needed time to figure out what overruled what, and on this occasion, she had a real shot at avoiding another error. He would hate her for it, but she couldn't continue to play his games any longer; if she cared at all about her own health, she would have to take herself away from him. It would kill her, but maybe they simply weren't meant to be. It hurt her inexplicably to think that, but she had no other option – whether or not she liked it, Will was her only hope.
Upon taking this in, she looked to her side at the man alongside her. He wasn't paying her any attention at all; she might as well have been invisible. The eyes that had been so intense minutes ago had become vacant – he was so utterly inaccessible that she wondered how he opened up to her at all. She gave up on him after a couple more minutes, and she went back to her original cabin. There, she pulled a shawl from her bed and took it with her to the deck area where he was. She went to the stairs next to him and sat on the bottom-most one, huddling up in her contained position, and she sneaked a few more peeks at him. She was still slightly lethargic, from the evening and morning experiences she had been through, so this was a lovely break, except for her pounding headache, the returning sadness for her father, and the anguish about the person across from her. She bit her lip once more, struggling to keep him out of her head, but she didn't need to for very long – Will himself walked out of his tiny cabin onto the deck. He glanced up at him momentarily, but otherwise ignored him, and she couldn't meet his eyes; Will took it to mean that she was grieving for the governer, but she wasn't in the mood to set him straight.
He, too, approached Jack, and asked gruffly, "Any further luck?"
"Not yet," was the only uttered response given. She felt mighty special that he had at least looked at her while he spoke.
Will swiftly decided to leave him be, to linger by the side of the ship rather than chase after a lost cause, completely opposite to what his fiance had done. He stared out at the sky and the sea, his mind treading in places that she was oblivious to, and the deck was utterly silent. Suddenly, she felt the urge to break the silence – to openly demonstrate where she had unwillingly placed her allegiences, and stand by the man who she had grown up with, who she still trusted despite whatever his current feelings were for her. She didn't, however; by some means, she knew she couldn't, and she was happy to keep her distance.
Yet, Will did glance at her once – she caught his eyes for the most fleeting moment – but his look said everything. He was worried about her, he cared about her despite the uneasiness between them, and he loved her; she didn't deserve his love, after what she'd been up to lately, and this brought a lump to her throat. She made herself a vow then; she vowed to herself that she would be as loyal to Will as he had been to her. She'd taken enough advantage of his dedication to her, but she was ready to get back on track – it would be more difficult than she could possibly imagine, she knew, but who said love of any sort was ever going to be easy?
Don't stop here
I lost my place
I'm close behind
The sun was fully up, finally breaking through the clouds now – that meant morning had officially risen, and the entire crew had to be up. They indeed were, and contented themselves together on deck with the three original residents; but he was hardly aware of them. He had more pressing matters at hand. He determinedly kept himself studying his maps, but inside, he knew he wasn't going to be able to kid himself any longer. He knew perfectly that he was never going to be able to be with her. That wasn't something he was used to seeing happen – normally, he could get any lass that caught his eye without any thought at all. It was trickier when they were married, or engaged, though; they had people they had to feel guilty about. He had no one to feel that way about, and he liked it that way – he didn't have to have a conscience. It was easier to be free and alone rather than chained to someone else, and he was a man of handiness; the closest he'd come to love before her was his rum, because rum kept him pleasantly drowsy and oblivious most of the time. There was a reason for every single thing he decided upon taking…
…except for her. She was the most inconvenient thing he'd claimed to date in his convenient life, and he would have done very well to stay away from her, but he'd never been one to follow rules. Because he couldn't have her, he made it his goal to take her, even if it made a plethora of extra problems to cope with in the bargain. He didn't regret any of the times he'd touched her, or any of the things he'd said to her – he'd meant more than half of them, which was a record in itself, and he knew he was getting honesty from her as well. Sometimes, with women, he couldn't be sure if he was as disposable to them as they were to him, but with her, everything mysteriously counted. Maybe that was why he sometimes got a little too carried away, a little too bothered by her occasional lack of believability; she really had no idea what she did to him. She didn't know how the tiniest suggestive inflection of her surprisingly rich voice unwound the elaborate, convoluted fibers in his head that he never investigated himself, how the littlest speck of intuition in her eyes added a feather-worth of weight to a load that already felt like an anchor caught in the ocean floor; when she was had the upper hand over him, even for the most transitory of moments, he somehow fumbled down to her feet. Up for her was always down for him…
He turned two dials at once, chewing on his already-filthy fingernails with anxiety that didn't necessarily apply to the task in front of him, when the phrase 'Up is Down' appeared in front of him – ironically enough. But that had nothing to do with World's End, he thought, disgruntled and frustrated; besides, it meant next to nothing. Didn't it?
He took a couple of determinedly steady breaths as he thought on this a little further. Up is down. Up for her was down for him. When she was right side up, no matter how infrequently, he was flipped upside down, something he was not used to; that was how it always felt to him. Up is down. At the moment, he was up on the surface, where he was comfortable and able to fight, but so was she – up against each other. But if they were down, where would they be…?
They would be underwater.
It was then that something simply clicked in his mind, though he was sure no one else would ever be able to follow his line of thinking. They had to flip the ship upside down – they had to make trouble and succumb to it, like him and her.
"I've got it!" he muttered to himself, a plan instantly making itself in his mind. Finally looking up at the world around him, and the crew complaining about the lack of water and how close they were to starving to death, he leaped up and went to the side with Will and the voo-doo witch, Tia Dalma. "Ooh, look there," he cried out, pointing out at nothing.
Will gave him a curious stare, but he ignored him – as a better use for his energy, he ran to the other side of the ship, slightly rocking it, and shouted, "What's that?"
"I don't see anything!" someone called. A few people he wasn't focusing on at all came to him, searching for whatever he was pointing to. Perfect.
"Eurgh!" He scuttled to the other side of the ship, taking those nameless, faceless people with him. Again, he gestured out to the open water, pretending there was something there, and now he had the full attention of every person on board with him. Somewhat-Captain Barbossa, confused by the behavior of the young and slightly insane man running back and forth across the deck, looked at the map and at the phrase 'Up is Down.'
"He's got it!" Barbossa said to himself in wonderment, understanding what he had understood minutes earlier. Barbossa, too, ran down to the rest of the crew, and joined them as they continued to dash across the ship, faster and faster with each round. Even she had gotten up to help, abandoning her corner as she started to grasp the reality of what was going on around her. He only noticed this out of the corner of his eye as he led the rest; he wasn't going to make the mistake of caring before she cared this time, he decided. The ship was violently rocking, by this point, and that was good – it was all part of the plan. He was on track once more, both with his sketchy feelings and his original mission. He liked the sound of that in his head; being on track was a blissful thought, after the craziness of the past few weeks. Now, he could dive headfirst into world affairs that didn't concern her, and he would know everything was okay – it made him giddier, run faster, act more spontaneously. Inspired by his progress, the crew followed along, until, at last, the poor Pearl couldn't take it anymore and tipped over into the water. Excellent.
As everyone held to the side rail of the ship while they tumbled feet-first into the murky ocean beneath them (or, rather, around them), he thought he could feel the slightest familiar brush of an ankle against his. Crates, boxes, and other oddities were floating around his head, blocking his view, but instinctively, he knew two things – one was that he had definitely touched her, gently and fleetingly, but definitely, and the second that it was not at all accidental. Somehow though, that mere touch told him what he needed to know; it was that she wasn't able to be with him then, but maybe later, she would be. She wasn't certain on that matter, but he wasn't either, and he understood now that he didn't need to be – he had gone through enough of his days to know that life gave him only what he was meant to have, people included. The same would hold true for her too – they would meet again if fate permitted it. If he said this to her verbally, he was well aware that she would deny it – she doubted him too much to take his word for it, and perhaps she had good reason. But, no matter what paths the rest of their lives took over their next years, he knew they would both carry the knowledge that they had been together, for a short period of time. That they had surrendered a bit of themselves to the other. That they had been forced to stay apart because they were simply better off like that. She was the first he had ever felt this way about, he thought as he began to scramble up to the surface with the ship and the rest of his crew, and impulsively, he felt that the same was accurate for her as well. It created a bond, no matter how unwilling she would be to take that to heart.
When his chin reached above sea level, at last, he flashed a grin before clutching the ship a little tighter in his coarse, hardened hands; he knew they had collided, and if they were able to catch a moment alone at any time after today, he promised himself that he wouldn't let her forget it.
Well even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills your mind
You finally find you and I collide
Finally find you and I collide
A/N: Haha; in my opinion, it was pretty weird, but really, all I did was add in a lot of random crap floating around in my head. And I felt better for it too, because this fic had, for whatever unexplained reason, had been on my mind lately. Anyway, so thanks for reading, and be sure to visit the review button on your way out!