A/N: I'm glad I kept my word and got this chapter up sooner:] The next one might not come so quick, but I'm very eager to write it, so it could. Thanks SO much to those who always review; its very nice of you. Those of you who don't....try it! Please?

Chapter Fourteen: Disasterpiece

Jack kicked a chair out from his desk and set Elizabeth down in it, kneeling on one knee next to her and pushing the hair that was glued to her face by blood out of her eyes, behind her ears. He muttered in Spanish still, noting her jump and wince as he shouted something out the open cabin door to get Mr. Gibbs's attention.

"Medical," he grunted when his loyal mate appeared in the doorway. Gibbs nodded curtly and turned around, back to giving orders. Jack was reaching around for the arm on her other side, pulling it across her lap and wrapping his palm around the deepest part of the cut, stemming the flow of blood. Pain shot up her arm as the wound pulsed angrily. She closed her eyes tightly and dropped her head, digging her teeth into her bottom lip.

Gibbs reappeared in the doorway with a bundle of something and a wooden box in his hands; Jack gestured to the bed and the other man tossed them there, hesitating, waiting for orders.

"The crew? Damage?" Jack asked shortly.

"Minimal, though the crew's a'ready celebratin'. No need to worry 'bout them," Gibbs responded on the spot. Jack snorted and shook his head, half in annoyance.

"Repairs come first. Then drinks, go." He snapped. When he didn't hear his first mate move away to start yelling reprimands at the unruly crew, he looked up, found Mr. Gibbs watching Elizabeth with concern. "She'll be fine, Mr. Gibbs, GO."

Jack got up and slammed the door shut after the older man, turning and leaning against it. He narrowed his eyes at her bowed head, staring into her tangled hair like he might be able to penetrate bone and see what was written on the inside of her skull. Her shoulders shuddered and she held one at an awkward angle; there was too much blood on her for all of it to be hers. What had gotten in her head, to make her cross ships? She was still crying.

He went to the medical supplies Gibbs had brought up and wrenched open the box, forgetting where he had placed the key. He found the precious bottle of unguent and a roll of clean cloth, and on top of that took out a few dried out leaves and a strip of rough burlap. He went to her again and stooped in front of her, reaching for the ties on her vest and loosening them, pulling it off.

He lifted the arm from her lap and surveyed the long cut, from mid-shoulder to the crook of her elbow, and started at the top, soaking a strip of the cloth he'd pulled from the bed with the unguent and pressing it firmly against the deepest part of the gash, then drawing it down the length of it, eliciting a hiss of pain from her as he cleansed the cut and wiped the blood away. It took only a swipe or two to clear all the blood off of her arm, and he made a point not to react to her small noises of protest as he poured rum directly over the wound. He unraveled a length of cloth and started wrapping at her shoulder, pulling it tight, securing every bit of open skin, and tying it off at a point just below her elbow.

He stopped and looked at his handiwork, satisfied that the worst bleeding was stopped, and hesitated, looking at the strip of burlap in his palm. He looked up at her and then at the shoulder, knowing it was dislocated. He looked again at her head, bent, and shielded by matted hair. She suddenly looked up at him, blindly, a bruise starting to color her face, blood drying under her nose and over her lips. He stood up and moved to her right side, holding out the strip of material.

"Bite," he ordered softly, in a tight voice. She looked at him blankly and opened her mouth, clamping her teeth down on the burlap as she was told, looking at him. He put one hand on her shoulder and one on her back behind her shoulder, a little beneath her shoulder blade.

"Look away," he said sharply. Elizabeth blinked at him and slowly turned her head; he saw her jaw start to clench and her eyes draw closed, the corners wrinkling as she held them shut tightly.

He set his strength and jerked her shoulder backwards and then forward again, bracing her with one arm, hearing the loud snap as the bone relocated. She shrieked, the sound muffled by her closed mouth but too loud to his ears all the same. He ran his hand down her arm and knelt beside her again, reaching up to her face.

"Don't ever do that again," she snarled, moving her head away from his hand. Despite the situation, he allowed a ghost of a smile across his features. At least she hadn't completely lost her mind, as he had initially feared.

"Look at me, Lizzie," he said, pressing his knuckles against her cheek. She turned her face into them, reluctantly looking. He reached downwards towards the desk, produced a bottle of electrically green liquid from nowhere, and held it up. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow weakly.

"Drink as much of this as you've been swillin' me rum, you won't think for days." He said, tilting it towards her. The absinthe coaxed and called to her, whispering of sweet release and delirium, and she found herself rejecting that. She had things to dwell on sober.

"I don't want it," she mumbled, looking away again. Jack stood up, setting the bottle down loudly on the table's corner next to her, letting it tempt her. He didn't know if that was best for her, to not take the drink, but he let her have it her way.

"You'd be ill-advised not to down a shot, lass," he said neutrally, "that shoulder will ache for hours."

She shook her head slightly, shifting her bandaged arm and resting the hand in her lap.

"It hurts; I'll get over it."

Ah, the layered sentence of the day. Jack watched her for a split second and then turned away, maneuvering through the cabin to the jumble of things in the back, removing his now-tattered and bloody coat as he went. He dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor and kicked it away, removing his crimson-soaked shirt as well and rummaging through a box for a different one.

Before he slipped on the whiter, less-used thin shirt he found, he took from the top of his boot a frayed loop of silk with a tiny glass bird on it, something he'd removed from Petimetre after the slaughter on the Venganza. He dropped it over his head and around his neck wordlessly, letting it settle with his other trinkets at the base of his throat, and put on the shirt, kicking the box a little angrily to alleviate some madness. As he stood up and glared silently at the mess of things in the back of his cabin, his eyes ran over to the very back, where a petite and intricately decorated trunk sat in the corner, taunting him. His fist clenched at his side, and a wave of pleasure rolled over him as he called back the sight of Petimetre's mangled body at his feet.

Behind him, Elizabeth had started to cry quietly, as if she were desperately trying to hide it…no, he knew she was desperately trying to hide it. He turned and glanced at her figure, slumped in the chair, tensed but lax at the same time. She'd shown a brutality today that had made even him widen his eyes as he'd watched her violent act, and yet he did not judge her, just hesitated to ask.

You know this could be exactly what I need?

Maybe he did know why she'd done it. He'd done things like this before, things he regretted—or didn't, depending on the circumstances—things that sprung out of anger and hate and a need to cleanse the soul by making others hurt like he had, or she had. Absolution in the most wicked of ways.

Jack approached her calmly, sitting down on the bed and leaning casually against the headboard, his hands behind his head. He still let his eyes settle on her, waiting, his one ear picking up signs of laughter and celebration coming through the shut door from the deck.

After what seemed like an eternity of watching, she suddenly turned to him, looking up, her eyes dark and immovable, face still grimed with the remnants of battle and the kill. Her gaze locked on his fiercely for a split second before she spoke.

"Why do you continue to stare at me like that?" she demanded in a low growl.

Jack didn't answer straight away. He took in her still slightly trembling frame and the rigidity of her muscles. His eyes drifted back up to her face and he slowly shrugged his shoulders, lifting an eyebrow.

"You can't let it drive you mad, Elizabeth," was his only response.

Her eyes flickered and flared. Her lips curled up in a scowl; she looked down and then back up at him, defiantly and disbelievingly.

"I murdered a man," she snapped—then hesitated. "A boy," she corrected more quietly, her lips shaking. She licked them, ignoring the coppery taste of blood. "A stranger who offered me help."

Her pupils seemed to grow tiny as water coated her eyes and her eyelashes caught tears before they fell again; her cheeks paled a shade beneath the blood on her face. She looked down to the hand in her lap, at the blood on it that Jack hadn't cleaned off. Literal blood on her hands.

Murder.

"I've killed before." Jack said stonily, his own repressed and black memories flashing in black and grey and light blue before his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to light them on fire like he had the old pictures that had been so painful at first.

Elizabeth almost scoffed at him.

"And those are your words of wisdom?" she snarled. She shifted her position in the chair, trying to find comfort for her many injuries. "Not like this," she mumbled softly.

"Elizabeth," Jack said evenly, drawing her attention back to him. Her glare was stony and set, as if she was prepared to be impressed by whatever philosophy he was going to dump on her. "Why did you kill him?"

He knew the question would make or break her, send her into a flaming rage at him or bring out the reasons she didn't want to face and eventually, after filling her with irrevocable guilt, help her move on.

"I...I don't know." She snapped, turning away.

"Ah, lying does no good. Yes, you do," Jack reprimanded sagely, from experience. He waited a moment, and when she didn't turn her eyes back to him or start yelling angrily, he went on gently, coaxingly.

"You have to face it, Lizzie."

She didn't say a word; but she unclenched her jaw, moving her lips and shaking her head slightly, then closing her eyes and opening them, blinking them rapidly.

"He had brown eyes, like wet sand." She said, barely audibly. Jack let her talk, remembering his own struggle with something so similar. "He was so young."

"It was in the heat of battle. All's fair in war." Jack prompted, knowing it would draw out her anger and her guilt, aware that it was what she needed to let it out.

"He didn't touch me, it wasn't his fight!" Elizabeth cried angrily, turning to glare at Jack as if he had no heart. "He tried to help. His eyes were so pure…"

"Then why did you kill him?"

"Stop!"

"Why did you kill him, Elizabeth?" Jack demanded louder, in a more forceful tone. She leapt out of the chair and flew forward, closer to where he was on the bed, a few tears escaping down her cheeks.

"He was Will!" she screamed at him, her un injured moveable arm going up to her hair and over her head. She winced at the pain in her shoulder, turned away and turned back. "He was too young, too gallant! Because he was stupid and he'd grow up and he'd…because he might get hurt, or hurt some girl like me…ruin someone…he was WILL and he had Will's eyes and he…and I…"

Her rant broke off in a choking gasp and she backed up against the wall next to the chair, lashing out and kicking it over, reaching over to cradle her shoulder as she slid to the floor , leaning her head back against the wall, her hand in her hair and over her face, crying.

"He was innocent," she sobbed, shaking her head, "I don't even know who he was," she said, her voice thick and hoarse.

Jack moved from the bed and took the chair she'd violently accosted, setting it right and sitting down in it, leaning back with his hand on his knee. He put a hand to his face and rubbed his forehead, drawing it down over his eyes and mouth, relief and triumph in his veins. He watched her hate herself and struggle with her actions and made a choice.

"Felix Sly," he said slowly, only loud enough so she could hear him over her noise. She didn't visibly react, but he knew she was listening. "El Petimetre's son, heir."

"You knew him?" her whisper was horrified and desperate.

Jack looked at a spot beyond her head darkly, for once not the one who wanted eye contact. He nodded imperceptibly, mind throwing back years, to a young girl with laughing eyes and a man who'd ruined everything.

"I knew Eduardo Sly. Petimetre." He stopped again and looked at her briefly, noticing her rapt stare. "It's a long story, Lizzie." He muttered, rubbing his mouth with his fingers, accidentally cutting his lip with a ring. It was a day for blood, apparently.

"You owe me," she whispered, and he almost caught himself smiling. Touché, my dear.

"Eight years ago," Jack said against his hand, then pulling it away from his mouth and resting it on the table next to him, clutching wood in his hand. "Eduardo murdered someone I…loved. Took everything. ."

This was too hard. Even Gibbs didn't know the first part of this story. He only knew the horrible accident that should never have happened, that was legend and that blackened Jack's background to horrifying pirate and not revenge driven, guilt-ridden vigilante.

Jack captured her eyes again, making sure she was aware, silently telling her to turn back now.

"I took it back."

--I don't know if I put the translations last time, but 'El Petimetre' is 'The Coxcomb' and Vengenza de Beretta is 'Beretta's Revenge'

--Disasterpeice by Slipknot