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I. once upon a time
Jack spends almost a week impersonating a priest, and the cross doesn't weigh particularly hard around his neck. It's all in the service of getting closer to a lovely young widow and her lovelier jewels, but when she's not in the confessional committing as many delicious sins as can be managed in a space the size of a roomy coffin, other people are occupying it trying to divest themselves of theirs. Jack listens, and only occasionally gets bored.
Fewer of them want to talk about carnal lusts than he'd hoped, although there's a certain amount of that. The rest of them have long stories of hard words and petty revenges, which Jack might find wearing if he knew them or their mortal enemies across the lane. As it is, he waves a hand and pronounces some penance that sounds good, and they go away feeling they've gotten good value for their time on their knees.
He doesn't feel particularly bad about it. They've gotten to pour out their stories to someone who won't cut them off and say "that's too bad, love, tell me all about it later" the first time they pause for breath, and if the point of this exercise is for God to hear all about it, presumably, being omniscient, He has. Of course, being omniscient, He presumably knew already, which makes the whole thing a somewhat puzzling exercise. Jack supposes it's like asking a small child up to his ankles in honey if he's the one who turned the pitcher over, but he's always thought of that as a way to encourage small children to learn quickly how to shift the blame.
In any event, he doesn't feel bad about not being able to offer absolution. If there's one thing he learned at his mother's knee that he still believes, it's that there's no freedom from your own karma to be gained by saying sorry. He considers that a fine reason not to say it. Better to keep running faster than the wheel can turn. He's good at that.
In the end, he finally manages to distract the lady in question enough to relieve her of her jewels and her fine lace mantilla as well, slipping them into his clothes while she's got her head thrown back, sweating and murmuring what isn't actually his name. He gives her a parting kiss somewhere below her waist and bolts out through the confessional doors, leaving her exclaiming and trying to repair her clothing.
He strips off his vestments when he's several streets away and on his way to the harbor and relative safety. "I have a confession to make," he says to the nearest startled passerby. "I'm not really a priest." He thrusts the expensive but incriminating garments into the man's arms, blows him a kiss, and runs for it. He's always been good at running.
He sells the jewels, and six months later he's not sure where the money went, as usual, but he keeps a scrap of the lace round his wrist as a memento. It's his own silent confession. He isn't asking to be absolved.
II. after the end of the world
People keep wanting to tell Jack things, and he's never quite sure why. He doesn't usually mind, even if it's awkward and leaves him struggling with the impulse to say things like "then why did you marry her?" or "well, make up your mind about whether you want to practice said unnatural vices with me before we both grow old." There's always some piece of information to be tucked away until such a time as it can be of use.
Even so, when Elizabeth rolls over onto her elbows with a distant look in her eyes, Jack wants to find some way to keep her from speaking. She probably wants to say something like "I love Will" or "I want you" or "I killed you," and he knows all of these things already. If God's interested, He presumably already does too, but Jack's not convinced that any god has much interest in them any more except to write them off as bad pieces of work.
He runs a finger down her jawline to distract her, and when she turns her head he kisses her, slow and unhurried, as if that will make this into something softer, like love. When they finally break apart, she traces the angry red lines on his wrist where the shackle cut into the skin, then tangles her fingers in scraps of fabric and lace. "Will you remember me?" she asks. She's always understood him too quickly and too well.
"I don't get eaten every day," he says. "I think you've made your mark."
He waits for her to say she's sorry, but instead she only kisses the back of his hand, her lips against his rough knuckles. Her fingers find the old scar of the brand on his wrist and trace it like a child learning her letters. He wants to say that leaving marks on each other doesn't make two people even.
Instead he plays with her hair and traces the curve of her temple with his fingers. She's not the pretty girl he met a year and more ago, all childish cleverness and anger. The bones under his fingers are sharper under the skin, her hair rough under his fingertips. There are new shadows under her eyes.
Maybe when they find young William she'll tell Will she's sorry, and he'll say he forgives her as if the words can cut through the way they're all tangled together and free Elizabeth to marry him with a light heart. Jack won't tell her that the real ties aren't words and promises, but the things they've all done to each other. Done to and done for, all the same; Elizabeth started it, saving Bootstrap's son and hanging his pretty trinket around her neck so she could play at being a pirate. And he's no one to blame but himself for pulling her from the water.
There's no point in saying any of it. Instead he says, "I'll remember you until the day I die," and smiles wickedly to encourage her helpless laughter. His hands tangle in her hair, and he wonders if she'll let him braid it, or if she learned enough from Tia Dalma to know that would be a binding. He's rarely met a woman so determined to stay free.
The only way to do that is to run, and he supposes she will. He lifts her hand and kisses her palm where the long scar crosses it. He'll leave her mark on her first, if she gives him a chance; he thinks of saying so, but she kisses him before he can speak, and he thinks she already knows.