Hunger did not announce itself. It crept in quietly, like an unwanted stowaway, settling deep in the belly and refusing to leave.
Jack Sparrow noticed it first.
At first it was nothing more than a vague discomfort, a hollow sensation that could be waved away with optimism and a straight spine. Jack leaned casually against the mast, arms folded, eyes fixed on the endless blue of the Grand Line as if sheer confidence alone could fill his stomach. The ache pulsed once. Then again. Louder this time. Less polite.
He ignored it.
The Black Pearl cut smoothly through the waves, her hull singing that familiar, beautiful song that Jack adored. Sea spray kissed the deck, the sun shone bright, and everything was perfect—except for the fact that Jack's stomach growled loud enough to sound like distant thunder.
He cleared his throat and shifted his weight.
Gibbs noticed moments later.
He had been walking across the deck, humming something vaguely nautical, when he froze mid-step. His brow furrowed. One hand drifted to his gut, pressing as if that might silence the sudden protest erupting from within. His face twisted in suspicion.
"Captain," Gibbs said slowly, dangerously calmly, "tell me you've got food hidden somewhere on this ship."
Jack blinked. "Food?"
Gibbs turned to stare at him.
Jack tilted his head. "As in… edible items?"
Gibbs did not blink.
Jack scratched behind his ear, gaze drifting elsewhere. "Well, now that you mention it, I might have… overlooked… the stocking of supplies."
There was a long pause.
Then Gibbs exploded.
He swore with passion, creativity, and commitment. He used words Jack had never heard before and was reasonably certain sailors were not legally allowed to say in polite ports. He paced the deck, gesturing wildly, pointing at crates, ropes, and Jack himself as if each were personally responsible for his suffering.
"You made me first mate of a ship," Gibbs snarled when he finally ran out of breath, "with no food."
Jack raised a finger. "In my defense—"
"No."
"I was busy firing at the Blue Parrot Pirates."
"Ugh."
"—and we haven't hit any storms on the way to Reverse Mountain."
Gibbs turned slowly and squinted at the horizon.
Dark clouds loomed in the distance, thick and swollen, stretching across the sky like a wall of ink. Lightning flashed faintly within them, like something alive and impatient.
Jack followed his gaze.
"…I'll stop talking now."
The wind shifted, cool and sharp, carrying the metallic scent of rain. The Pearl creaked softly, as if uneasy.
"We have to avoid it," Jack said quickly, suddenly all business.
Gibbs shook his head. "That storm's too big. You don't go around something like that. You ride it out. On land."
Jack's eyes widened. "We don't have time for detours. Roger's execution is in a day."
Gibbs stared at him. "We haven't been pirates for even three days."
Jack straightened, puffing out his chest with theatrical gravity. "A pirate pays respect to his king."
He struck a pose—one foot up on a barrel, chin lifted proudly—that might have looked noble in his head. In reality, it looked like he was about to topple over.
Gibbs opened his mouth, then closed it. He decided not to comment. His sanity was fragile enough.
They scanned the sea desperately.
Nothing.
No islands. No familiar shapes. No welcoming stretch of sand or treeline. Just endless water and the growing storm.
Gibbs frowned. "Where's the Log Pose?"
Jack hesitated.
"I don't have one."
Gibbs turned very slowly. "You don't… have one."
Jack shrugged. "I followed another pirate ship to Jaya."
Gibbs stared at him. "That's not navigation."
"I kept my distance," Jack added. "Professionally."
"That's stalking."
"It worked."
Thunder boomed closer this time.
Jack froze. His head snapped up. "Wait."
The clouds were no longer distant.
They were closing in fast.
"Fasten the sails," Jack barked suddenly. "Buckets ready! Tie down anything that moves!"
They moved on instinct. Gibbs hauled ropes with practiced strength while Jack scrambled across the deck, half-slipping, half-dancing as rain began to pour in heavy sheets. The wind howled, tearing at sails, whipping coats and hair violently.
The storm hit like a fist.
Waves crashed over the deck, soaking them instantly. The Pearl pitched hard, wood groaning under the assault as lightning split the sky open. Jack clung to a rope with both hands, teeth bared in something between laughter and terror, while Gibbs bailed water furiously, shouting curses that were ripped away by the wind.
Hours blurred together. Rain, thunder, shouting, splintering wood. The mast shuddered violently. Sails snapped like gunfire. Jack slipped, slammed into a crate, laughed hysterically, then crawled back to his feet.
The Black Pearl held.
Barely.
When Jack finally collapsed, it was not because the storm passed, but because his body had no more strength left to give.
Morning arrived quietly.
Jack woke sprawled across the deck, face pressed to cold wood, mouth tasting like salt. Sunlight filtered through thinning clouds. The sea was calm, impossibly serene, as if mocking them.
He blinked.
They were alive.
He sat up slowly, surveying the damage.
The Pearl looked awful.
Splintered railings. Torn sails hanging like wounded wings. Cracked planks that would need attention soon. Very soon.
Jack sighed. "Maybe being a pirate isn't all it's cracked up to be."
A loud snore answered him.
Gibbs was slumped against a crate, hat askew, fast asleep.
Jack smiled faintly, picked up a bucket, filled it with seawater, and tossed it without hesitation.
Gibbs jolted awake with a yell, flintlock raised instantly. "Who—!"
"Relax," Jack said cheerfully. "It's just me."
Gibbs lowered the gun, glaring. "I should shoot you on principle."
Jack nodded. "Later. I found food."
Gibbs's eyes lit up. "Food?"
"I think so."
Gibbs squinted. "You said 'think.'"
Jack was staring upward.
At the sky.
A massive seabird circled lazily overhead, wings wide, utterly unaware of its impending fate.
Jack turned slowly, grin stretching far too wide. "How good is your aim?"
—
The bird tasted far better than it had any right to.
They sat on the deck, chewing roasted meat over a small fire, grease dripping down fingers, stomachs finally satisfied. Jack leaned back, sighing contentedly.
"Your shooting's terrible," Jack said casually.
Gibbs glared. "You try hitting a bird in midair."
"You wasted all your bullets," Jack added. "What good is a gun if you can't use it?"
Gibbs pointed a bone at him. "You're welcome to try next time."
Jack held up his hands. "No thanks."
They finished eating just as something massive rose from the horizon.
Reverse Mountain.
Gibbs stared. "You sure that leads back to East Blue?"
Jack nodded confidently. "Son of a merchant. Aren't you supposed to be one yourself?"
Gibbs snorted. "I didn't operate in the Blues."