It was midway through the second watch when Jack found Elizabeth standing on the deck of the ship, but he didn’t move towards her immediately. Instead he stopped some feet away, hoping that he’d been silent, unheard, so that he could study her in the pre-dawn darkness, just for a few moments.

She was leaning against the railing on the starboard side, he saw, her head bowed down towards the water. Her nightshirt was flapping gently in the cool night breeze, and even though she was wearing Jack’s coat over the thin white fabric, he could see that she was shivering.

He started moving towards her again.

She turned to look at him as he approached. He saw her lips curve slightly upwards as she nodded a greeting, but it was a fake smile. He could tell because it didn’t reach her eyes. Almost immediately, she turned to look back out at the horizon.

Between the translucent quality of her skin, still delicate looking even after the two years she’d spent aboard his ship, and the nightshirt that was fluttering around her calves, she looked almost like a ghost, Jack thought. He leaned on the stretch of railing beside her, then balanced himself on one elbow so that he could run his thumb over the cool skin of her cheek. At the same time, he buried his ship-callused fingers in the soft brown waves of her hair.

"What’re you thinking ‘bout?" he asked. He spoke softly, but his gravelly voice sounded harsh and too real in the darkness that surrounded them.

She shook her head, keeping her gaze fixed on the water down below. Jack looked down also, seeing only black: deep and fathomless.

"Elizabeth."

"It’s nothing."

Jack would have been able to tell that she was lying even if he hadn’t known it in his heart of hearts. Touching her, holding her as he was, cupping the back of her head with his palm, he could feel even the smallest of her muscles tense. At that moment, she was very tense.

"You know where we are," he said.

It was a statement of fact, not a question. He tightened his hand in her hair, pressing the ragged ends of his blackened fingernails into her scalp until she told the truth, until she nodded.

"You’re wondering how he is, aren’t you? You’re wondering whether our young Mr. Turner survived your disappearance."

"He’s not ours," she said, her voice too tight, too controlled. He almost smirked, had to cough to hide the chuckle that was threatening to escape him before he spoke again.

"I’m sorry. My mistake. Your Mr. Turner."

She turned to look at him, for one long instant, and her eyes were wild, wet and too-wide, reflecting fear and betrayal and moonlight back at him. He could almost see her thoughts, could almost feel the waves of hatred rolling off of her, but then she jerked her whole body away from him and he was forced to let go of her.

"He’s not mine either, you bastard."

Instead of responding in the way that he knew she wanted him too—pushing the point, so that she’d have a reason to yell at him, a reason to let go of the pent up emotion that was boiling inside of her—he just turned so that he could place both elbows on the railing again. He stared out at the thin line of darker-darkness that was the horizon, focused intently on it as she walked away from him. He could hear the heavy breaths that she was taking, the effort that she was going to in an attempt to get her temper under control—it was never wise to lose one’s temper with one’s captain after all, no matter if one shared the captain’s bed more often than not.

He heard her turn so that she was facing him again.

"Sometimes, I just can’t help but wonder," she said. "Will is—"

For several moments, Jack waited for her to finish the sentence, to say what Will was, is, but she didn’t, so he said, "Will is what? The love of your life? A yellow-livered coward for not coming after you?"

"Safe."

She bit off the word with such force, Jack couldn’t stop himself from turning to look at her over his shoulder. Her jaw was clenched, muscles bulging under the delicate skin of her cheeks.

"Will was a good man," she said a moment and another deep breath later. "He didn’t deserve what I did to him."

Interesting, Jack thought, and that was what inspired him to ask the question that had been brewing in his mind since he’d walked out on the deck only minutes before, since he’d seen Elizabeth staring in the direction of her old home.

"Would you go back?"

He spoke much more softly than usual, his tone bordering on tender, but the night was so silent, he knew that she’d been able to hear him. He tried to pretend that he wasn’t holding his breath, waiting for her response. He tried to pretend that he knew which answer he wanted her to give. When she didn’t speak, didn’t answer immediately, he elaborated.

"If, say, I was to give the order that the Black Pearl should sail right on up to Port Royal when we pass her by in two days time, would you go back to him?"

"No!" Elizabeth said too quickly, in Jack’s opinion. Looking too shocked, too aghast. "No," she said again. Firmly. "I don’t want to go back to him. I made the right decision when I left."

Jack nodded, acknowledging her words, but he couldn’t help but wonder which of the two of them she was more eager to convince, herself or him.

He heard her start walking back towards him, felt her move into his personal space, and then she pressed herself up against him until he raised one of his elbows off the railing and draped it over her shoulders. She leaned her head against his own, her crown coming to rest against his ear, and then she turned so that she could press a kiss to his cheek.

"Let’s go back to your cabin," she said. "Let me show you how right my decision was."

Jack nodded as he pushed himself away from the railing and dropped his arm from her shoulders so that he could grab onto one of her hands and lead her back in the direction of the cabin that they’d both come from. He kept his step quick, eager, but she lagged behind, just for a moment, and Jack let her. He didn’t look back at her, just slowed his pace, because he didn’t want to see the brief look of longing on her face as she stared in the direction of the horizon, the direction that Port Royal would be, should he choose to sail that way. He pretended that he didn’t know the reason why he didn’t want to see that look of longing on her face.

He pretended, but he didn’t forget, not even when Elizabeth fully pressed herself to him the moment that they were inside his cabin, her mouth covering his own and her hand already working its way inside his breeches.

No, he didn’t forget, but maybe, he thought, he’d let himself misplace the thought for a little while.

He woke up the next morning to the sounds of his crew moving about the deck, doing those things that good crews did, knowing the things that needed to be done without their captain needing to tell them.

Elizabeth’s head was resting on his chest, her lips open far enough for a thin stream of every breath she took to play across his nipple. His hand was resting in the small of her back and his fingers were tapping the skin there like he might tap the ship’s wheel as he tried to decide which way to turn his Pearl next.

Which way, he thought. That was the question. Which way which way which way.

Of course, it wasn’t really a question. He’d known the answer since the moment he’d seen Elizabeth again, working as a barmaid in that tavern in Tortuga.

There weren’t a whole lot of moments in his life that Jack Sparrow could remember with complete and utter clarity, but that? That was one of them.

He could remember the taste of the pipe smoke on the air, the mingled scents of sweat and blood and sea-grime, ale and roast meat and too many men unused to doing an honest day’s work.

He could remember the feeling of Mr. Gibbs bumping into his back, because he’d stopped right where he was, in the door of the tavern, completely transfixed by the sight of the girl at the bar.

Except, he remembered, she hadn’t been so much the girl that he’d remembered, the girl that he’d left behind in Port Royal—safe, he’d assumed, in her blacksmith’s arms.

He closed his eyes, picturing her. Remembering, just like it was yesterday. As if it was happening again, to him, right in that instant. His stomach churned again, as if he was seeing her again, for the first time.

Elizabeth’s dress was cut low, showing more skin than even he had seen before, and that was surprising, he thought, because he, as far as he knew, was the only person in the world with the dubious distinction of having ripped her dress and corsets off. Even from the distance he was at, he could see that her face was painted: ferociously red cheeks, black rimmed eyes, and blood red lips.

She was leaning close to another pirate, a minor player in the whole pirate game, one that only hit towns so small, they weren’t worth any of the time or money His Majesty might have to spend to protect them. She was leaning close, letting the pirate’s hand cup her breast as she whispered something—sweet nothings, probably, of his strength, his power, his manliness—in his ear.

Then, as if she felt the weight of Jack and Mr. Gibbs’—because his first mate had leaned around him, trying to see what the problem was—gazes, she turned to the door.

Immediately, she pulled away from her pirate and she stalked towards him, the tavern’s patrons making way for her as if she was royalty. Maybe here, he thought, she was.

He tasted the ill-feeling that that thought gave him, the sense of wrongness that he felt in that moment.

"Captain Jack Sparrow," she said by way of greeting when she was close enough for him to hear her over the noises of the other patrons. Then she kept walking towards him until they were hardly a breath apart. He knew that if he looked down, he’d be able to see right down her dress, so he did, just for a brief instant—he was a pirate, after all. Propriety was beneath him—and then he looked back up at her face, at the familiar features hidden behind the not so familiar makeup. There were words sitting on the tip of his tongue. Questions, words of shock, more questions, but before he could get any of them out, she pulled one hand back and slapped him. Hard.

"That," she said, "is for making me wait three months for you to get here."

Then, using the same hand, she back-handed him across the other cheek.

"And that is for looking down my dress."

He raised his arms in what was meant to be a placating gesture, but she was glaring at him now, unconcealed fury boiling beneath her skin.

"Miss Swann," he said. "Elizabeth. I apologize. If I’d known that we had an engagement, I would have sailed here post-haste. You have my word."

Her eyes narrowed even farther. She crossed her arms over her chest and he did not look down to see how nicely that action pushed her breasts out further. He also didn’t think how close they were to being pushed out the top of her dress.

He did look down to see that she was tapping a filthy slipper on the floor, one more sign that she was very, very annoyed at him.

Quickly, he said, "I think we need to talk."

He reached towards her, grabbed the elbow that was closest to him, and did an abrupt about-face so that they could exit the bar. He’d almost forgotten that his entire crew was standing behind him, but they parted in front of him, then stepped together again, forming a human wall between his own self and the tavern owner, who had just seemed to realize that one of his girls had left without his permission.

He wasn’t sure what he expected once they stepped outside the tavern and into the streets of Tortuga, but it wasn’t a nearly silent Elizabeth, an Elizabeth that let him hold onto her elbow as he guided her along, like they were a respectable couple out together for a stroll.

His first inclination was to head back down to the waterfront. He felt more comfortable on the water than he did on land, after all, and whatever would come of this conversation, he was relatively—pretty much—sure that he wanted to be comfortable for it. After a moment's thought, though, he headed up the hill that the town was built on. There would be more people at the waterfront. More taverns, fights, women selling their wares. As relatively sure as he was that he wanted to be comfortable for this conversation, he was sure that he wanted to be as alone as possible.

Finally, when they’d walked nearly to the top of the town and he hadn’t seen another living soul for a good few minutes, he stopped, pulling Elizabeth into a small alcove. There were two convenient crates there and he motioned for her to sit on one. It spoke of how long she’d spent in Tortuga that she didn’t even flinch, didn’t even blink at the idea of sitting on something that was maybe dirtier than her dress already was.

"Last I saw you," he started, "you were—" What? In Port Royal? In the arms of your blacksmith? Just on the verge of happiness? A proper lady and not this dressed up… whatever you are now?

"I know," she said, an answer to all of the unasked questions.

Her voice was rougher than he remembered it being. She’d lost some of her tone of a proper English lady, the syllables sounding more slurred together than the sharp, staccato sound that he was used to.

"Then why—?" He left that question dangling, too, knowing that she would again know everything that he wasn’t saying. She did.

"That wasn’t my life back there in Port Royal. I didn’t want that to be my life."

"And this is? This is what you want? This is what you wanted to become?"

He gestured at her, at her face, her clothes, and he couldn’t stop the look of disgust that crossed his features. He knew that she’d seen it because she flinched, looking as if she’d been slapped, and then she looked angry again. Her eyes flashed at him, noticeable and somewhat scary, even in—especially in—the dark.

"No. This is not what I want. I want to be a pirate."

He choked on a laugh, then gasped out the word: "You?"

Her eyes flashed again, narrowing dangerously, and Jack told himself that really he needed to learn to keep his mouth shut, especially when angry women were involved.

"What about the whelp, young Turner?" he asked, before she could say something cutting, or decide that maybe she wanted to slap him again—his cheeks were still tingling from the first two times. A sudden thought occurred to him. "The boy’s okay, isn’t he? Still breathing and practicing his three hours a day with the sword, working out his frustrations at not being able to have you?"

"He’s fine," she said, and for the first time since she’d sat down on the crate, she looked away from Jack. "At least he was the last time I saw him."

"Then why aren’t you there with him, with your beloved blacksmith? Where you belong?"

"Because it’s not where I belong," she said, jerking her gaze back in his direction. "Didn’t I already say that? That that was not the life that I wanted for myself?"

"You didn’t tell me why, though." He shifted so that he was leaning back against the alcove’s wall. "Humor me. It’s not every day that a poor humble pirate such as meself finds the Governor’s daughter working in his favorite tavern, now is it."

"Because he wasn’t a pirate," she said softly, after a long moment. "I’d thought that he was a pirate, I told him he was—he has pirate's blood running through his veins, after all—but he decided he wanted to be a blacksmith."

As Jack watched, she closed her eyes and seemed to travel into herself. She slumped slightly, deflating.

"I couldn’t handle being a blacksmith’s wife, Jack. I couldn’t stand the thought of spending the rest of my life in Port Royal. Between Will and my father, I’d be stuck there. I’d live the life of a lady: gossip and social calls, making doilies, mending Will’s shirts. Running around after the children, because of course we’d have a half-dozen."

"And this is so much better?"

"I’d given up on you coming," she said. "Tonight, I thought to myself that maybe it was time to head back. That maybe this really wasn’t the life for me." She opened her eyes again. "But I’ve thought that nearly every night since I arrived. And every day when the sun rises, I’ve decided that I’ll give it one more day. I’ve said to myself, ‘Elizabeth Swann, this will be the day that the Pearl will arrive on the horizon.’ And today it was."

There was a small smile on her lips.

"That’s why I came here," she explained. "Because I knew that if I waited long enough, you would come—that you had to come. That you’d let me sail with you."

The words weren’t a surprise—Jack had been waiting for them since he’d first seen Elizabeth back in the tavern, since she’d slapped him and told him that she’d been waiting three months for him to arrive.

He choked anyway, though, and said, "And what makes you think that I’d let you sail on my ship?"

The look of mingled anger and surprise—mixed with just a hint of fear—on her face was enough to let him know that the thought had honestly never occurred to her, that he might not take her on as one of his crew.

She opened her mouth once, then closed it, then opened it again so that she could say, "Well, why wouldn’t you? I’ve certainly proven myself, haven’t I? I fought Barbossa and his crew with you. I helped organize the defenses of your, well, of the Interceptor, while you were being held on the Pearl." This time, she was the one to gesture at her body. "I think that I’ve shown that I can do what I need to do to survive."

"It’s bad luck to have women-folk on board, though," he said. He looked away from her, out towards the street that they’d just come from, so that she wouldn’t see the smile that was starting to play on his lips. He was sure that she could hear it in his voice, though, no matter how hard he tried to make it sound as if he was serious and frowning.

He almost laughed out loud when she growled.

"As if I’d believe that you believed in that when you still have AnnaMaria sailing on your ship. Don’t play with me, Jack. I’ve been waiting for you. Are you going to tell me that I’ve been waiting in vain?"

For a moment, just a moment, Jack considered nodding, saying that yes, she had been waiting in vain, that he needed another woman on his ship like he needed a hole in his head—although most people who knew him would probably say that would be an improvement. It would just be needless torture, though, and even though it was in the pirate code of conduct to enjoy such things, he knew that now was not the time. It wouldn’t do to agree to let her on board too quickly, though, without it seeming as if he’d actually thought the whole thing through.

In reality, he’d made his decision on their walk from the tavern to this spot. He’d made his decision as soon as he’d seen her, because he hadn’t quite realized how much he’d missed her, however spoiled and young and enamored with the idea of the pirate’s life she might be.

He remembered saying, "Elizabeth, darling, it never would have worked between us." He remembered the taste of the words and the thoughts that he’d had that had led him to say them, to leave her there with her blacksmith. He was having those same thoughts now, but he was looking at them in a different light. Suddenly wondering if things really were so impossible.

He drew in a deep breath. The air this far up was nearly clean, only tainted enough by the life of the town below to leave a slightly unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth.

"Well, it’s not like I can leave you to rot the rest of your days away here," he growled. He pushed himself away from the wall so that he could start pacing. Three steps one way, another three back to the street.

"You know what I should do, I should get you on my ship and sail you right home to your father. There’s bound to be a reward for the return of an important person such as yourself, now isn’t there? I’d be a genuine hero."

Elizabeth bared her teeth at him. "You wouldn’t dare."

"Oh, wouldn’t I?" he asked. He’d already started backing towards the entrance to the alcove again when she pounced, tumbling them both out into the street.

"You wouldn’t dare," she said again, breathing the words into his ear, and he shuddered slightly, not in revulsion. Thoughts were coming to him again, unbidden, and he couldn’t stop himself from remembering the night that they’d spent marooned together on the beach, bottles of rum their only company.

He stepped away from her then, shaking his head to vanquish those thoughts. It was better, after all, if he pretended that he was committing a selfless act by letting her board his ship, become one of his crew. If she wanted to become a pirate and he turned her down, he knew that she wouldn’t return to Port Royal. He knew that she would find another ship to take her on, a ship that wouldn’t be crewed by honorable pirates such as himself. It was better, he thought, if he was there to guide her into a life of piracy, and then guide her out of it again the minute that she realized it wasn’t the life for her, as she was bound to realize that it wasn’t the life for her eventually.

Sooner, he hoped, rather than later.

It was better if he pretended that those were his only reasons, and that his thoughts had never ventured into places they shouldn’t have gone.

"Let’s go," he said. "Let’s go back to your rooms, wherever they are, and get you changed into something a little more comfortable, because I can guarantee that you’ll not want to be climbing rigs in that get up.

"Yes sir," she said.

Then she took his arm in hers, and together they started walking back down towards town again.

That was where the clarity of the moment ended, growing fuzzy, becoming a mess of scenes of Elizabeth on the ship, flourishing in her new life and then finally making it into his bed—her decision, not his.

She shifted against him now, lips brushing across his chest, and he opened his eyes so that he could look down to see her. She was staring up at him.

He remembered being amazed at how she hadn’t chaffed under the monotony of spending day after day at sea, but had instead glowed with each new adventure. He remembered the look of absolute joy on her face the first time she'd picked up a bar of ill-gotten gold—gold that she had helped in the ill-getting of.

He also remembered seeing the shadow that had come into her eyes when they’d stopped in Tortuga the night before, the shadow that had not left yet. It was the first time since she’d boarded the Pearl two years before that they’d come so close to Port Royal.

It was the first time, he thought, that Elizabeth had been close enough to her home to let herself wonder how Will was doing.

"Do you want to go back?" he asked. Not ‘would you,’ as he’d asked her the night before, but did she want to.

Elizabeth rolled away from him, then sat up in bed, holding the sheet across her breasts. She was looking at him seriously, so seriously and honestly that he almost let himself believe the next words that she said.

"No," she said. "This is my life. Here, on this ship. With you."

"But you wonder," he said. "You’re wondering right now what it would have been like for you if you’d stayed. Whether you’d be waking up as Mrs. Will Turner, making your husband breakfast, and then settling down for an exciting day of gossip and doily making."

She shuddered, grimacing.

"I just— I wonder if Will has forgotten me, that’s all. If he’s moved on. If I broke him. That’s what I wonder."

Jack sat up on the bed, too, leaning back against the headboard.

"Of course you broke him," he said. "The boy loved you more than life itself, risked his life to save yours, then just before the wedding you ran off. A man doesn’t survive that sort of dismissal whole."

She flinched repeatedly as he spoke and he wondered why he was saying such things, if subconsciously he was trying to drive her away from him and back into the arms of the man he’d been so sure that she belonged with—was so sure that she belonged with.

Then, mentally cursing himself, he said softly, "There’s only one way to know for sure, though, isn’t there."

"No," she said, shaking her head frantically. "No, Jack. I can’t go back. If I go back—"

If you go back, you’ll never leave again, he thought.

"What if someone was to see me? Recognize me?" she asked instead. "They’ll keep me there. They will. What if Will sees me? My father? I’m not ready. I don’t want—"

But she did, Jack could tell. He’s spent two years learning her nuances, after all. He knew every smile she had, every shadow that might cross her features. He’d made it his business to know when she was being serious, playful. He knew when a kiss would make everything better, or when he needed to leave her alone, or when the only thing that she needed was to be taken into his cabin for the night, neither of them to be seen again until the next morning.

He’d needed to know these things—most of them, anyway—so that he’d know when he needed to take her back to Port Royal. So that he’d have some warning.

Now was the time. He knew that. He just couldn’t stop part of himself from really wishing that it wasn’t.

"Then we’ll just have to make sure they don’t see you," he said, smiling far more brightly than he wanted to.

Port Royal had changed in Jack’s two-year-plus absence.

The last time he’d seen it, though, they had still been in the process of rebuilding after Barbossa’s raid. Broken glass had still littered the streets and several buildings had been naught more than burnt out shells.

Now, it seemed to gleam in the sun like a piece of gold glinted on the beach, trying to catch your eye, trying to make you pick it up. It was beautiful.

He and Elizabeth had rowed their dinghy right up to the docks, paying the dock-master four shillings and being registered in the same book as before as Monsieur and Monsieur Smith. The same boy that Jack remembered stood at the dock-master’s side, but he’d grown—the top of his head was nearly even with the dock-master’s shoulder—and he no longer looked surprised that his master would accept a bribe. Instead he smirked at Jack and Elizabeth, wink-winked at them, and deliberately looked the other way.

Jack nodded his head to the both of them and Elizabeth muttered something, her voice pitched low, and they walked up the wooden planks until they stood on solid ground again.

He looked at Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye and saw that she was shaking slightly. Whether it was from fear or nervousness, anger or worry, he couldn’t tell, though, because he couldn’t see her face. As part of her disguise, she’d borrowed AnnaMaria’s hat, the one that allowed a woman to pull her hair up underneath it yet had a large enough brim to hide all feminine features. She was also wearing a loose white shirt and a leather vest that was tied together at the front so as to hide the thick strips of cloth that she and AnnaMaria had tied around her breasts that morning, trying to make her chest as flat and man-like as possible.

"Steady there, young Smith" he said, reaching out to her and grasping her shoulder. "You’ll get your land-legs there in a minute. Just hold still and try to become one with the solid ground."

He watched her flip up the rim of her hat so that he, and only he, could see the glare that she was giving him. He smirked at her, gave her a wink-wink like the young boy had just given them, and reached over so that he could pull the rim of her hat down again.

No one would recognize Elizabeth, AnnaMaria had made sure of that, but Jack had been in charge of making sure that no one would recognize him. Like Elizabeth, he’d chosen a hat that he could hide his hair in—well, most of it at least. Instead of the ragged mish-mash of clothes that he’d worn the last time he was in the city, he wore a nice, clean pair of breeches, a fitted coat, and a clean shirt. He also—gods forbid—had clipped his beard.

He looked almost respectable, Elizabeth had said, and he shuddered at that thought.

"Where to?" Elizabeth growled, speaking loudly enough for other people on the waterfront to hear them. Hearing her speak in such a low, deep voice grated on Jack’s ears. "We’ve only got one day of land-leave, after all. We need to make the best of it."

It was a script they’d worked out, a general guideline as to how they were going to get into Port Royal, get the information that they wanted—namely see Will—and then get out without drawing attention to themselves.

Or, as Jack was sure the case would be, get him out without drawing attention to himself, because if he’d had someone to bet with, he would have placed money on the fact that Elizabeth was going to stay behind, where she belonged.

"Well, I need to get me blade sharpened," he said, dropping his hand to the pommel of his sword and caressing it. Then, smooth and fast as a snake, he reached out and grabbed hold of the next person to pass them by. "You there. Point me the way to the blacksmith."

The man quivered in his grip, then turned in the direction of the town. "Th-that way, sir. Will Turner’s forge is that way. Mid-way up the street, sir. Th-there’s a sign out front. You can’t miss it, I swear."

Jack eyed him, watching as the man grew paler and paler. Then he nodded, a sharp jerk of his head, and released him. He laughed as the man ran away.

"Will Turner’s blacksmith shop," he said loudly. "That don’t sound like the name of a blacksmith to me. Blacksmiths, they’re supposed to be named Smith, or some such name as that, aren’t they?" He turned to look at Elizabeth, then draped an arm over her shoulders. "Like the both of us!"

Elizabeth grunted and started walking up to the town, ducking out from under his arm and leaving him behind. She was weaving slightly, Jack saw, as if she’d had too much to drink despite the fact that the sun had barely reached its zenith in the sky. Or maybe she was just trying to look as if she didn’t know where she was going.

Smart girl, she was, playing her character to the best of her ability.

"Mr. Smith," he called after her. "Hold up! Wait for me."

When she didn’t stop, he ran after her.

The streets of Port Royal were more busy than Jack remembered them being. More people, more vendors out in front of their stores hocking carts full of their wares: fruits and rugs and pottery and hot bread. He might have stopped to perform a few taste tests if Elizabeth hadn’t been single-minded in her desire to get to Will.

He stayed right by her side.

It was a ten-minute walk from the docks to the familiar rickety wooden door of the forge, with the new—since Jack had been there at least—sign swinging above the door that read Brown & Turner, Blacksmiths.

Elizabeth hadn’t told him what she intended to do once they reached Will’s shop, how she had determined to get a look at her blacksmith without going into the shop itself, but when she showed every intention of just walking by the shop, Jack pulled her into the alcove he’d hidden in during his first stay in the city.

There would be room for two behind the statue, if they stayed close together, he was sure of it.

She mumbled a protest as he jerked her off of her path and out of her reverie, but he noticed that she was shaking again by the time that he had them positioned. Every muscle in her body seemed to be tense, quivering with… some emotion, some thought inside of her head that he couldn’t quite place. He pushed the brim of her hat up so that he could look into her eyes, so that he could try to read her thoughts, her emotions there, but all he saw were clouds of confusion.

"What were you planning to do?" he asked. "Walk right on through the door? Those people down at the docks might not have recognized you in this getup, but if you think for one instant that you could have fooled young Turner…"

She shook her head; that hadn’t been what she’d been intending to do, apparently.

"I was going to look through the window," she said. "There’s a window off to the side of the forge, down that alley there. I was going to peer in it. I thought that if I saw him, if I saw that he was okay and alive, that would be enough. That should be enough, shouldn’t it? That’s why we’re here, right?"

He didn’t say that they were there because he was sure that she needed to be there. He didn’t say that he was sure that one look wouldn’t be enough, that he was sure once she saw Will, she’d walk into the forge, pull her hat off of her head, and that the Greatest Young Love Story of his time would have reached its right conclusion. He didn’t say that he knew he would be going back to the Black Pearl alone.

"That’s why we’re here," he said instead. "We’re here to get closure."

"Closure." She nodded. "I just need to get to the window, see him, and then we can head back to the ship and sail off as if none of this had never happened. Then I won’t have to wonder anymore."

There was such a hopeful gleam in her eyes that Jack had to lean forward to kiss her. She kissed him back, her lips moving wetly over his once, twice, and then she moved away, smiling softly at him.

He tried not to think that that might have been their goodbye. After she went into the forge, as he was sure that she would, he wasn’t going to stick around. He would be back down at the docks before Elizabeth knew he was gone, halfway back to the Pearl before she came after him.

It would be better that way. The last thing Jack needed, after all, was the good Governor or the even better Commodore getting wind of the fact that he was in town.

"Go get your glimpse," he said, giving her a gentle push to encourage her to get out from behind the statue. "Go get your wonderin’ mind some peace. But remember to be stealthy, savvy? You don’t want him—or anyone, for that matter—seeing you."

She nodded, but then, just as she was about to step out from behind the statue, something that Jack hadn’t anticipated happened.

While they couldn’t see the doors to the forge from their vantage point, Jack was able to pick the sounds of them opening and closing again out of the other city sounds. He might not have even registered those sounds, though, if the next sound he heard hadn’t been Will’s voice.

It was deeper than Jack remembered it being, more rough around the edges. Mature. He felt Elizabeth, who was still pressed up against him, freeze.

It wasn’t just Will’s voice that he heard, though. He was in conversation with someone—some girl—because he could hear small, feminine murmurs of agreement being placed intermittently throughout Will’s speech, and then there was a peel of feminine laughter as the story came to an end without Jack having any idea what he’d just been listening to. He’d been too focused on Elizabeth and her over-powering stillness to do more than register.

He had to do more than register a moment later, though, because Will had turned in their direction and for the first time since Will had sacrificed his own life to save Jack’s own, he saw the other man.

Perhaps not unremarkably, he looked very much the same. A little taller, maybe, but that could have just been Jack’s memory modifying details. He wore a beard now, neat and tidy, just enough hair to cover his chin, really. His hair was still pulled back into a ponytail.

The surprise, the remarkable thing, was the girl—woman—that he was with. She was short, just slightly taller than Will’s shoulder, blonde, with a round face and an abdomen swollen with a child that was no more than a month—maybe two—away from arriving, if Jack knew unborn babes at all.

He might have just thought that Will was escorting someone else’s wife home if he hadn’t seen the way that her hand was curled around his bent elbow. If he hadn’t seen the look of warmth on Will’s face as he looked at her—that small, secretive smile, filled with love that Jack had been sure was reserved only for Elizabeth.

If Will hadn’t stopped right in front of their hiding place so that he could pull the woman into a kiss. From where he was standing, Jack was able to hear the words, "I love you, Claire. And I love the baby." He was able to hear the girl giggle, a happy, love-filled sound.

And he couldn’t miss the sound of Elizabeth’s muffled horror-filled sob.

Quickly, he grabbed her shoulders and turned her so that she was facing him, so that she could press her face into the curve of his neck. He raised one hand so that he could awkwardly pat at her back, a series of gentle, uneven taps.

"Elizabeth," he said softly as the taps became small rubbed circles, which in turn stilled until all he was doing was hugging her.

"Elizabeth," he finally said, after several minutes had passed. "Look at me."

She raised her head. He had expected her eyes to be wet, but they were in fact dry. Her face was deathly pale, though, and for a moment Jack was worried that she might faint. Instead, though, she started laughing, a nearly hysterical sound.

"I wanted to know, didn’t I? I was wondering how he was doing without me and now I know. He’s doing fine. He’s happy. He’s got a wife and a bloody baby on the way and… That’s—He’s got to be in heaven right now. Did you get a good look at him, Jack? He’s in heaven. Without me."

There were the tears now, he saw, shining low and heavy in her eyes.

"Elizabeth," he murmured and then said the words that he’d sworn he would never believe, would never say. "This isn’t your world. This wasn’t meant to be your life." He believed them now, though, because as he looked at the woman standing between him and the rest of Port Royal, he could no more picture her hanging onto Will’s arm, walking through the town, pregnant with Will’s child than he could… picture Will as a crew member on the Pearl.

Will had looked happy. He had looked as if he’d belonged in this life that he’d made for himself. And while, two years before, he’d been sure of Elizabeth and Will’s True Love, his brain was suddenly unable to reconcile the image he’d just gotten of Will with the Elizabeth that he’d come to know so well.

Maybe, he thought, Elizabeth had been right two years before. Or maybe as time had passed, as she’d achieved what she’d thought that she wanted, she’d made herself right.

"I know," Elizabeth said. "That’s what I’ve been saying for years now, isn’t it? That I didn’t belong here, that I didn’t want to belong here." Two tears dripped down her cheeks and Jack couldn’t stop himself from reaching forward to brush them away. "And I don’t. I just. I didn’t expect Will to have moved on so quickly. I didn’t want him to have moved on so quickly. Somehow I always thought that someday he would come after me. I knew that it would probably take him awhile, but I thought that one day he would wake up and realize that the sea was where he needed to be and that then he’d come for me."

"Maybe one day he will," Jack said. "Maybe we haven’t reached his someday yet."

"No," Elizabeth said, shaking her head and they both knew it was true. "He’s not his father. He may have a pirate’s blood in his veins, but he’s not his father. He won’t leave home now that there’s a wife—a child—involved." Her voice caught and quickly she said, "I’m okay. I’ll be okay."

Jack didn’t know what to say, so he just stood there. Despite her words of strength, she looked lost, though, and suddenly Jack did know what to do. His heart swelled, and for the first time since he’d seen Elizabeth in the tavern in Tortuga, he felt completely right.

He grabbed her hand in his own, squeezed it tightly, and said, "Well I know somewhere that you do belong."

When she looked up at him, slightly more confidently, he said, "Come. Let’s go home."