He was unflinching as he continued to navigate the Pearl to the shallows, grateful for both the lulling wind, and the retreating Calliopie.

He was hunched over the wheel, draped across the Pearl's prow as if he were her beloved. The tremor in his hands hadn't stopped, any

more than the reign of fire mixed with salt water across his lacerated back. He had little time to truly heed the pain, or survey the damage

to his shredded shirt, but he had felt the splinters of wood dancing furiously over his back. He caught the brunt of the projectiles when the

cannonball had hit, he felt the blades of shattered deck and the muck of the ocean's vomit as it surged over him, and the blinding, blinding

pain when they had drawn their teeth and bit down bone deep. It hurt to move, it hurt to stay still, and from the invasive throb that rippled

everytime he moved his right shoulder, or the sharp agony when he shifted his left hip, he knew that there were shards of wood buried

deep in his back.

At least two, if not more, Jack mused. The rainwater had slicked away some of the tattered remnants of his shirt, and the blood. With the

distractions of the storm, and merely surviving the night, Jack breathed a was not missing a limb, or

convulsing about the deck like a gutted fish, so his wounds could be safely ignored for the moment.

His lip curled in distaste as he finally, slowly straightened his bowed back from its injured slump, and wince at the bright flail of pain

that laced up his spine. Jack had to halt the movment with a grunt when the world started to tilt with something more than the erratic

sway of the Pearl. Slowly, slowly, he rose to his full height, grimacing as the material that cemented to the reopening wounds tore free.

Jack swore under his breath, he hadn't hurt that much since the flogging he had as a theiving youth, and even then, the burn of memory

was not enough to quell his instinct to sit down.

He had hardly meant to be as testy as a swatted gull to Gibbs, but that slap across his back, and that horror in Gibb's eyes as he

withdrew that bloodied hand...Jack swallowed hard.

Mercifully, the storm had slacked off, and he was free to finally view what had been done to him. He turned his head, carefully, and

stared down at his back. The blood-sullied linen shirt was slick with the rain, the dirty grey even more sullied by the dark blooms

of scarlet. His shoulder had caught the brunt of the wood, a jagged wound easily the size of his palm splintered the flesh, and

went bone-deep. His bronzed skin was oozing with sweat and the sea-muck, and blood, and he knew that there were several

splinters imbedded from his shoulder blade to the hip on his right side.

"Cap'n?" Jack turned to see Gibb's eyes narrowing as they glided down his back, and his jowls working into his teeth as he

shook his head. The old man sighed and slid the flask of rum into Jack's waiting hands. With a huff, he

fluffed the coat into the wind, and held it out, silently waiting. Jack only gave him a small, grateful smirk as he popped the

cork with his teeth and spewed it into the water. Hoisting it high, he gulped it down in one long swallow, before he handed the

nearly emptied flask back to Gibbs.

"Thanks, mate. Ye've no idea how much that was needed." Gibbs snorted at that, good-naturedly, but scowled again as

Jack took his jacket and shrugged it on with a wince over his wounds.

"Jack." The paternal grunt was laced with warning and concern as Gibbs pursed his lips and uneasily slid his hands to Jack's shoulders,

pulled the material in place.

"Cap'n, those wounds need tendin'."

Jack waved a tired hand in the air between them, forced a bright smirk that bordered on a grimace. "They're hardly noticable! Indeed, one would

think that I'm at the very verge of expiration, with the way that you're carrying on. Mr. Gibbs, they're nothing."

Gibbs tilted his head to the side, raised an eyebrow as he suddenly poked the bloodied shoulder. Jack's whole back spasmed as the unexpected flare of

pain nearly brought him to his knees. Grunting, Jack rounded on him like a wet cat, hissing. Gibb's smug moment of triumph ruined when he saw the bronze skin paling.

The wheel was slick beneath his shaking hands, the knuckles white, as Jack ground out, "Mr. Gibbs, I am bloody fine!"

Gibbs shook his head, bitterly. "Cap'n, yore much more bloody than fine at the moment. Those wounds need tendin'."

Jack's eyes went storm-dark as he drew himself up, to snarl out softly, "And the Pearl needs sailing, Mr. Gibbs."

It was useless bickering and humiliating admission, blathering ending in threats of Gibbs stringing Jack to the yardam and Jack cheerfully

answering that he'd maroon his first mate with no sea turtles, before Jack was finally bullied into submission.

The wind was finally slackening off, the Pearl was gaining steady speed, and Jack was seething as he relunctantly surrendered the wheel to Cotton. Gibbs

followed Jack through the gainway and into his quarters, dodging the doors that he flung open, and only offering a tolerant smile as Jack crossed his arms,

flounced downward into the chair. Warily, Jack watched Gibb's fretting search through the small quarters for the rudimentary supplies.

The old man set the needle, thread, flask of rum, and a fresh patch of linen on the wooden table, vinegar, a set of sheers he pilfered from a woman who left him with

a memory of lace and not much else.

Jack eyed them dubiously, raised a questioning eyebrow to Gibbs, who only shrugged in answer and hid the smirk behind a well-timed chug.

There was only a long, uneasy silence as Gibbs gave Jack a pointed look, started threading the needle. Jack sighed, and forced an uncertain cackle. "Ye intend to sew me up, Mate? Is all of this...medicinal detail entirely necessary?"

Gibbs set the needle down, and crossed his arms. "Now who be actin' like a whimperin' winch, Jack? Do you intend to go about with the ship's splinters in your back? I know ye love the Pearl, but having her wood in ye's not necessary, is it? 'Sides, Cap'n." Gibbs gave him a rueful shrug.

"Twon't do you any good to sew you up unless we get that wood out." Jack frowned at that, but slowly began to peel his sopping jacket off, and let it flop to the floor,

the linen shirt, he eased off over his back and flung the bloodied mess away in distaste.