Oh, it's on, Disney.

Title: The Five Endings They Couldn't Afford and Would Have Never Happened Anyway

Note: You know, when you're freaking out about fictional characters, it's always useful to have a nurse in the family who can kindly explain to you that certain endings make no biological sense and that you should, kindly, shut the hell up.

Spoilers: PotC: AWE

Summary: Guess these weren't in the budget and stuff.

Rating: PG

to Mireille for tolerating my rants.

I.

At the very bottom of the sea, among les petites sirènes and broken hearts, Calypso waits.

He sinks slowly through her fury, drawing closer to the edge, and though she may take any form to haunt him, she keeps the one he likes.

She sits with him when he boards the barge.

"My debt has been paid," he says.

The sea disagrees, but lets him sail to the ends of the Earth, cowered by her presence.

Like this, she could carve out his soul, lock him away, keep him true as the tide and herself free as the ocean.

But he must be tired, and so is she, so she'll sit across him and not say a word, and when they go over, she'll return him his heart, and wait to be returned hers.

II.

The way Jack sees it, there're those who're born into piracy, like him, and those who're born to be pirates, like her.

And if her ship is bigger than his, 'tis only temporary. And if her ship is faster than his, 'tis only 'cause she hasn't got much rum. And if her crew's more loyal, well, it's only 'cause she's the bloody Pirate King, and he's voted for her, savvy, so, at the very least, she owes him a decent head start.

"Perhaps I'll grant you a day, Captain Sparrow," she grins and fires off a chain shot for good measure.

He thinks that maybe she'll have herself a fleet soon—a galleon, some sloops and barques—and leans against the mast, touching a finger to his lips. "A week sounds much more better, darling?"

She leans against the railings, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, but there is amusement when she shouts, "That's Captain Swann to you, Jack!"

Both their ships sway for a moment, and then his is off, Juan Ponce de León's charts plastered across the helm.

Though, to be fair, he'll always have the advantage.

After all, even if he's trailing, the compass is bound to steer him to her eventually.

III.

Will is not a selfish man.

"You don't want to be like me, William," Bootstrap tells him. "I don't want to be like me."

But he seems oddly happy, so Will has no room left for regret when his father stands by his side.

And he's right, because Will has no intention of being like him, of abandoning a wife or a child ten years at a time. So, really, he can't resent the fact that, without a heart, he cannot keep his duties, save for the one required of him.

And though he could make port in the shallows, or have her on the Dutchman, or persuade Calypso to relent, he feels his flesh grow cold, sees the sun fade from his skin, and knows there is no blood in him to pass on.

He has never been selfish, so he will ferry souls until there are none left, and try to forget.

IV.

There are places James has dreamed about.

In his final travels, the dinghy takes him south, past Nassau and St. Kitts, turns sharply by Antigua, steers him west to Puerto Cabello. He has no need for sleep nor drink, so he keeps his eyes opened and puts his feet up, and knows he'll never wake up.

So he's charting one last course, lulled by the oceans—south of Santa Marta, north to Vera Cruz, east beyond Havana, and maybe he'll see Elizabeth again, maybe in a dinghy not unlike his own, maybe landlocked somewhere he can't reach.

But if he doesn't, if eternity is to be spent alone, if he is to drift on the water forever, sprawled on the barge with his hands behind his head and the wind in his hair, he'll accept this, too.

V.

So maybe she's contemplated shrinking his head and carrying it around with her, but she much prefers this.

" Yo, ho, haul together," his men sing, "hoist the colors high. "

Under the harvest moon, her men join in, " Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die. "

She dangles her bare feet off the deck, leaning back on her palms.

"You sh'uld prob'ly stop singin' it to everyone," he suggests, taking a swig then passing the bottle to her.

Her lips curl. "I would hardly call that singing."

The Pearl groans, reefed between two coves, her mainsails fluttering in the breeze.

And then maybe they talk, or maybe they don't, maybe she grabs for his compass, maybe he lets her.

Perhaps when the wind picks up and the chase begins again, she'll give him another week before she starts the hunt. If she feels like it. And if she doesn't, she can go anywhere she pleases, anytime she likes, with anyone she wants.

After all, that's what a ship is.