The first time he ever threw up on a ship, he knew something was wrong.

Then it was only a matter of watching for other signs, and then eventually, for the other signs. Suddenly rum was more of a comfort to him than it had ever been.

He was halfway through a bottle one night, and throwing it back up, when he finally heard it. A gentle, rushing sort of laughter.

Like mother's milk.

He leaned back against the wall of the cabin. Of course, he'd sort of known.

"Calypso. What have you done?"

Call it a gift, Jack, a parting gift from me.

"A gift or a curse?"

As you were to me.

He closed his eyes, and just leaned back against the solid, rocking wood, braids half-askew over his face.

Give my love to Hector. I can see he's already had yours.

And then the faint, rushing laughter again, and then silence. He raised the rum bottle to his lips again.