Jack was aware Cam didn’t always agree with him on these things, and he knew her well enough at this point to realize she had her objection to his thoughts on just what they had encountered at the house. By the same token, she didn’t really need to voice her objections, he took note them anyway. But her quiet restraint on the matter wasn’t the only thing he took note of….

Perhaps it came with the occupation. The life of a hunter had its way of fine tuning ones senses. The need to be on guard on a daily basis will have that effect. Jack had always been that way to a point though, picking up on more than expected of a man, but maybe his line of work helped amplify the gift somewhat. 

No, it wasn’t fun having to sleep with one eye open, waking from the slightest sound or looking over your shoulder at every turn, but it was helpful to pick up on the less regarded aspects of things taking place around you. Like Cam’s look, for example, the one she drifted with for that moment before he drew the phone from his pocket. Jack had seen it a hundred times before from women, that slightly dreamed gaze of wondering if maybe… just maybe…. To be fair, he didn’t get that a lot from Cam, he could count those moments from her on one hand and still have a few fingers left to count with. But that didn’t really account for much in the broad scheme of things - when you get two people of opposite sex in a room alone, it’s nothing less than natural for the prospect to cross their minds. And really, Camilla was an overall great package, any man would have been lucky to have her. Jack would be lying to think he didn’t feel the appeal. On more than one occasion he’d been tempted to bend her over the nearest bench and give it to her. Simple as that. Still, he wouldn’t be the one to initiate. If she wanted to, the first move was on her.  

“It’s just a scratch.” It wouldn’t have been fitting for Jack to respond in any other way, so her ignoring the comment while walking to the bathroom didn’t come as any surprise. 

It wasn’t really a lie. The internal damage hurt much more than the cut did, though he had his suspicions a lot of the pain had been dulled by the amount alcohol he’d ingested over the last 24 hours. Truth was, he didn’t really want to look at it, as ignoring wounds that didn’t feel life threatening had become a habit, and in time he would get around to tending to it himself. But right now he had more to consider than himself. Camilla was there and she had a conscience. It wasn’t like she owed him anything, he would have done the same for anyone standing next to him at the time of the event, a fact that didn’t however negate her need for recompense. He was aware of the unwritten code of loyalty between partners and in her position he’d be feeling the need to extend the hand of appreciation as well. Far be it for him to deny her that. 

When she returned from the bathroom he let out an appropriate sigh to state his reluctance, yet pushed from his chair regardless, nudged it aside with his foot, and then placed his bottle on the bedside table next to hers. 

“You should know you don’t owe me anything.” He said turning back to her, giving a short shake of his head with a low furrow of his brow, and noticed the gauze packet being crushed by the angst of her grip. Producing a minor howler look, he shrugged the jacket to the floor and kicked it aside as well, then regarded the woman with approbation. “I don’t have any complains about you. If I thought you were lacking I wouldn’t be working with you. You’re good. Real good.” 

With the jacket off, Jack kicked his boots free before peeling up his T-shirt for a better look at the damage, and okay, it was a little worse than he thought. Above the naturally solid plate of abdominal muscles and in the shade beneath his pectoral ascent, a thin splinter of wood could be seen protruding, causing the flesh to swell parallel with his rib. 

“Well that’s fucked up.” He almost sounded like he was joking while pulling the T-shirt clear from his head. But he didn’t discard it, instead rolling it over one hand in preparation. Without hesitation he removed the splinter and tossed in the wastebasket next the bedside table while using the shirt wrapped around his other hand to press down on the wound. Keeping the pressure on, he removed the Glock from his belt with his free hand, placed it next to the beer bottles, then dropped back on the bed in a casual manner, feet crossed, shoulders and head propped against the wall and pillow. He gave her a wink, one corner of his mouth cracking with a stunted smile.  
 
“Let’s get this show on the road.”