Tony pressed his arm over his eyes as he groaned in a dark, stinking, creaking room and prayed that the rocking in his head would stop. He should have left these kind of drinking binges in college. Maybe in an hour or so he would be ready to look around and figure out where he was. Until then…wait, beard? And why the hell wouldn't his bed stop moving? It was like swinging, swinging…swinging…nausea…swinging…

He rolled and, after a long drop, landed on a damp, hard floor – which was also moving. "Uggggghhhhhh."

"Shut up."

He waited until some dry heaves subsided before feebly calling, "Ziva?"

Her reply consisted of a thunk somewhere near his head. He squinted his eyes open to see a knife in the board, still shaking from impact with the wood.

"Ugh. What did you do to me last night?"

"Oh, fine thanks I get for conveying you back safely to the Invader. Would have served you right to wake up in the streets of Nassau, robbed and stripped naked."

"You've got some pretty twisted fantasies." He suddenly hoped she wasn't sleeping with any more knives. "But, um, thanks. I guess."

"Thank you for not vomiting on the floor, though I cannot imagine you have anything left."

"Aw, crap."

Ziva's head popped over the side of a hammock swinging above him. "Please tell me you did not…"

"No, but I'm still a damn pirate."

"You like being a pirate."

"How would you know?" He flopped onto his back, trying to enjoy the rocking of the ship. I am on a peaceful lake, letting the gentle waves…making me feel nauseous. Right, so that wasn't working. Maybe in the future – the damn distant future, assuming he ever got back – he would have to be a little nicer about McGee's seasickness. "I don't want to be a pirate anymore. I like being a guy with electricity and TV and Ohio State football and…and cheeseburgers and…" He managed to open his eyes and look up at her. "women who bathe daily…"

"Insults. You must still be drunk. I am sure our crewmates will be proud."

He felt his head swim, though not with the abandon of alcohol. "Has Tabasco been invented yet?"

"What?"

"I'd even take your jasmine tea and lime thing for this hangover."

"Well, if that is all you want…"

He didn't bother to complain about the fact that she stepped on him as she swung down from her hammock and strode out of the large room. Cabin. Whatever. It was just another hit to his nightmare theory that he was suffering with a hangover. Dreams weren't supposed to hurt. And time travel wasn't supposed to exist. Yeah. And why were there so many people snoring in here?

Ziva was suddenly back. "This should help." She passed him a handful of black and brown fur.

"What is this?" He propped himself up on his elbow.

"Dog hair. It is how most of the crew cures their hangovers. I assume that is why we keep Jethro aboard, in spite of the fact that he seems to make Captain Blackstache sneeze."

He had to blink a few times before his brain made the connection. "Ziva, hair of the dog is just an expression. You cure your hangover with more booze. So stop torturing McGee's dog and bring me some rum."

"I am not your serving wench. Get it yourself." She stepped on him again as she returned to her hammock.

He was about to protest when a glass bottle hit the floor beside his head. "Oh. Thanks."

"I had to take it away from you last night, now I have returned it. Drink it and shut up."

He held down the first retch only some effort, but he started to feel better by the third slug from the bottle. He managed to stagger to his feet and meandered out of the room into the open air on deck. At the first railing he came to, he decided that a struggle with his fly was in order. If he could invent the zipper…oh, there it was. He aimed over the rail and let go. "Ahhhhh."

"Hey!"

Tony opened his eyes and discovered his stream wasn't landing overboard. "Oh, sorry, Tim."

"I may be a cabin boy, but you've no right to piss on me! I mean, to actually piss on me!"

Tony let McGee climb the ladder as he held it in long enough to reach a railing that overlooked water. "If you want some rum, feel free."

He didn't approach until Tony had buttoned back up. "You didn't piss in this, did you?"

"No." He took a long drink from the bottle, which seemed to satisfy McGee.

"Right." He took a quick swig before passing it back. "You've got some damn dumb luck with your aim. I'd have thought you meant to hit me if I hadn't seen your demonstration at The Windy Slug last night."

"My demonstration?"

"Yeah, I've never even seen Ziva shoot the cork off a bottle, though I bet she could. You hit two and you were just waving your flintlocks around."

"I'd rather be lucky than good." Tony grinned. "Lefty Gomez. Played baseball."

"Baseball?"

"I'd offer to cut you in on inventing it with me, but you'd just turn it into a video game."

McGee looked at him quizzically for a long time. "You don't make much sense, DiNozzo."

"Nope. But I think I may have some better money-makers than piracy," he paused as he pointed to his temple with the mouth of his bottle, "right here."

"Anything you might want to share with your Captain?"

Tony spun too quickly to face Vance, and almost choked on a mouthful of rum. It was the long, curly wig that had to be most responsible for that. When he had collected himself, he managed to stammer, "Just talk, sir. Nothing in it."

"Wouldn't expect anything from you, Mr. DiNozzo, but since you're up so early…"

Tony discovered yet another terrible thing about being a pirate – washing the deck. If he got back to his own time, he was going to need an appointment with modern McGee's manicurist.