She knows the origins of that hat. He'd told her the story long ago of working as a powder monkey on half a dozen ships—each one left unnamed in his memory ever since the Pearl caught his eye for the first time. Finally working his way up to a quartermaster, the captain had spied a pirate ship off in the distance…right before a cannonball slapped his head right off his neck. Elizabeth had gasped right after that dramatic pause, her hands flying to her mouth. Grinning at his achievement in shocking his Pirate King, he continued the story, telling her of his split-second decision to unsheathe the headless corpse's sword and order the crew to battle.

"You're leaving me in suspense, you know. I can't help but wonder if you survived or not." She had said this sitting cross-legged across from him on their bed, the waves rollicking the ship. A series of creaks answered her before he did.

"Oy now, ye loathsome wench. That was only the great battle against the Diana what won me my captaincy, and me hat."

"I do apologize."

The Pearl creaked again, scolding her, still not used to her presence.

He knows now what happened before she arrived to Shipwreck Cove, the twangs of Chinese musical instruments playing as vividly for his imagination as they must have for her on the Empress. Only his Lizzie would dare play along with the pretense of her being the goddess Calypso herself. Only his Lizzie would dare play along with said pretense with the late Sao Feng. The odd aromatic mixture of hibiscus and frying shrimp had tickled her nostrils to the extent she had no choice but to wrinkle her nose.

And then the man uttered that ancient name.

And his Lizzie went along with it, refusing to share the powers she did not even possess.

It was still enough to make his fist tighten over the butt of his pistol, imagining Sao Feng, shirtless and freshly bathed in oils, lunging at her and sloppily smashing his lips onto hers, trying to absorb her like the mythical jiang shi.

But the event did lead to her royal title, kingly to say the least, he thought.

She knows he still suffers from nightmares, nightmares about a place she sent him to. The first time, she lay awake in their bed. The new sensation of sharing a bed with someone, being held in someone's arms, having that someone's forehead nestled in the curve of her neck—all of that had kept her heartbeat at a pace that sleep would have found ridiculous and most unaccommodating.

But it was in the warm darkness that she felt a kick, and then another. She shifted just enough to see his blanket-covered legs thrashing, a small whimper and a series of shallow breaths emanating from his mouth.

She didn't know how she knew it was the Locker. Lord knows how many nightmarish situations he had been in, but she knew it was the Locker. When his eyebrows arched in agony, her palms pressed against his temples.

"Jack. Jack," she whispered.

Hearing his exhales slow and lengthen, she kissed his closed eyes and burrowed back under the covers.

He knows she thinks of Will when she looks at Billy sometimes, and he doesn't mind. Much. He forgets at times that Billy isn't his son by blood, but if he is at the helm and looks down to see what his Lizzie is up to and sees her frozen in time staring at her son, he knows there is a good chance of tears.

"What's wrong, love?" That was what he said the first time he noticed it.

"Nothing. I, I just needed to get away," she said, wiping her cheeks and yet not ridding herself of every single droplet.

"If ye miss dear William, ye can tell me. I can still hear his voice me-self when I'm feeling a might noble-ish."

At that, she threw herself at him and sobbed into his coat. He hadn't meant it to sound cold or insincere. He had told the lad the truth when he first compared him to the fake Dutchman; neither looked like much, but underestimating either could prove fatal.

"He's just missing so much, Jack! He's missing him grow up. It's the last thing he would want, to not be there."

He glided his fingers through her honey hair, an action so practiced his rings never caught one single strand. Sometimes there are occasions that do not call for any response.

She knows how many women he's been with, and had set her jaw when he had told her in a drunken state once that if she would just let herself be with him she would be the lucky number fifty…and he would stop there. Oh yes, just what a woman wants to hear.

"But ye ain't a woman, Captain. You're a right bloody king," his father told her when she sought him for a supplement to the Code once. "Ye have to expect that fact to drive the boy a bit wild."

Elizabeth preferred to think that maybe one of Jack's previous forty-nine women had slipped him something besides her tongue that made him wild…oh, she knew the disgusting stories of men who slept with the wrong women and vice versa who lived not so happily ever after, something amiss with their parts, but she knew even then it was the thought of him with anyone else that made her wild, herself.

That idea stayed with her even after she had become number fifty, even after he had stayed true to his word about never finding the need to find a fifty-one. She had forgotten just how many times they had been together, but it had been the first time he had not said he loved her when they had finished that led her to rebuff him.

"If that wasn't good for ye, love, you'll have to be patient and wait a while. I ain't a machine."

"Do as you please."

"I often do, but I fail to see how that is relevant to the matter at hand unless by 'do as you please' you mean you wish me to continue pleasuring you senselessly without regards to the banal but ever so crucial detail that you've worn me out?"

She wanted to slap the laughter right out of him.

"It means do as you please," she snapped and turned her head so she faced the other way.

"Likewise, darling," was all he had said before he rose from the bed to put on his clothes.

He knows she has her insecurities, just as he does. The back of her mind thinks whores and barmaids can hold a candle to her. The truth is once she fell off that fort and into his life, no one could hold a candle to her.

She knows he laughs at himself when he holds Cora's little hands, helping her walk across the deck. She's not the only one who notices the sharp contrast between their daughter's black locks and the tattoos running up the father's arms. But she also knows that if you follow the eel bite down to the tattoo of a crown encircling the width of his arm down to the sparrow tattoo down to the pirate brand down to the lace that forever wraps up his palm down to his rings…if you follow all of that down, you'll see his fingers are interlocked with a charming little girl who doesn't see her father as a pirate but simply as Papa.

He knows if he were to ask her to recall her favorite day, she would answer the one where the two of them spent half the day up in the crow's nest side by side splitting a bottle of rum and staring out into the wind. In other words, the day after she brought the Pearl back to him. They were on their way back to the Cove to retrieve Billy and too tired to make love again but not tired enough to be unable to move, they sat up in the crow's nest, the ship still anchored, their knees up to compensate for the small space. He knew, because as they climbed down and set sail, she gazed up at him with adoring eyes and said it was the best day of her life.

They know what the other sounds like when they sing.

They know how much of a challenge it is for the other one to keep their promise to never go to bed clothed, especially now with children aboard.

They know the importance of long coats and robes due to previously stated predicament.

They know the middle names of the other one's parents.

They know a pirate's life is by nature a short one and that each day is a testament that they both can beat any odds.

They know the other one is a wretched pirate with a penchant for creating trouble even with the most miniscule amount of resources…

And they know that fact makes the other one love them even more for it.