(no subject)
Title: Simpatico
Author: calichan
Pairing: Jack/Bill
Rating: PG-13? R? "Mature themes"
Notes: Once again, doesn't give as good an image of my Bill as it reflects another character through Bill, in this case, Jack. Someday I'll do a piece about my Bill directly. Really.
(I almost forgot to post this here because I thought I already had. Thanks ninglor!)
The room is dark, and it would be quiet but for the restless murmuring of the lithe, dark skinned thing curled on the bed beside him. The room would be still but for the occasional turn in slumber and twitching scritch of the man's fingers against the covers.
It is early, but Bill Turner has woken up for the day, and sleep refuses to reclaim him.
It is times like these, lying beside the man in a bed they share, that he realizes just how putrid Jack Sparrow smells, and gives contemplation to the thought of bathing him: hands on gold skin, kneading gently, working up those lean thighs, feeling the grease and the dirt rubbed free until there is only taunt but weathered skin beneath his fingers; hands working up further, to the juncture of those impatiently squirming legs, where in coarse curls is such a pungent, unwashed stench as should never have given a man such pleasures as come to mind at the thought of it -- a long time in those regions, then, until Jack's sloe eyes droop and his body slumps and he becomes more pliant and less wriggly at once; plenty of time, after that, to wash the rest of him while he's momentarily complacent, because the trick to keeping Jack Sparrow still is metering physical reward against otherwise unwanted attentions; he can wash the oil off that lean, skinny body and work the fetid smell out of the nooks beneath Jack's arms, and last, at last, get his fingers into that tangled mane. It doesn't take a lot to upkeep dreads with regular maintenance, he knows, on word of friends, oh no, but Jack's hair holds a special place in the annals of the world's great sewer systems -- the hours it would take to work from that hair the food, and rum, and sweat, and semen, and brine, and dirt, and vomit, and perfume, and whatever poor, small animals have crawled up into that jungle and died, Bill can never sufficiently comprehend.
When Jack Sparrow sleeps, Bill Turner often wastes good, long fantasies on giving him baths. Once Jack hits the water with the idea in mind to get clean, he cleans himself with the same brisk and thorough determination he lends to other matters, after all, so, as a matter of actually undertaking the feat, Bill declines.
He doesn't have to wonder how he ended up in bed with him again, despite the dull, acrid taste in the back of his throat which sticks as much from inhaling Jack as from kissing him. (Bill does not hold any illusions as to the quality of his own breath, but Jack's breath -- by any measure of things forsaken by the good Lord -- has achieved its own, magnificent breed of vile, and never improves, even when Jack's body is clean.)
It would be nice, Bill thinks, if Jack was not distracted by this and that and prostitutes too often to think to bathe, the times they are in port. But, Jack is as entertaining a companion as he is loyal, and as loyal as he is foul smelling, and as foul smelling as his sex is waves over the sand, ceaselessly rising and breaking, and bright, white lights at the back of your eyes -- Jack's sex, Bill is aware, is a force of nature.
He is aware, also, that he is one of the very few authorities on that matter, for though Jack Sparrow might seem ungodly thorough for the time he spends with any woman he meets, Jack Sparrow cannot impart all his tricks upon even the most willing flesh in just a one night stand. Jack makes up new tricks all the time.
Some more successful than others.
Bill winces as his train of thought lights on something particularly unsuccessful and last night. He disentangles himself from Jack's cloying limbs, ignores the mutter of protest as the slimmer man squirms forward to sprawl out in the wake of his warmth.
Jack's looking irritable in his sleep. Bill grins. He tugs the covers up over him. Jack has wiry muscles and little fat, no comparison with Bill's heavier build. Jack's a warm weather animal, and Bill disbelieves any claim he makes to his body's ability to endure the cold. Too scrawny, he says, and just your damn stubbornness to ignore it.
Bill relieves himself in the chamber pot and retrieves his razor from his things. He pours water into the wash basin, splashes his face off, first, before soaping his cheeks and leaning up to the small, stained mirror to work at shaping his beard up properly. It's grown shaggy since last he shaved it. He spots a few newly gray hairs. By the time he's done -- rinsed his face off and thrown the water out, his beard is back in respectable shape.
Nothing about Bill Turner is as respectable as the illusion of respectability he crafts.
He begins to dress. Jack's sleep talking rises an audible murmur -- "...and her tits... 'er tits...."
Bill has come to understand all the reasons so many of the women Jack dallies with take to slapping him. If he hasn't offended them awake, he'll offend them while he sleeps, if they give his dreams enough time.
Bill is most often no worse than amused. He's only pushed Jack out of bed once, at any rate. He sleeps quietly, himself, and rarely snores.
Bill tucks his shirt in and puts on his belt.
He's aware it's a privilege to watch Jack sleep like this. They're wary, both of them, and don't trust easily for they are both untrustworthy, themselves. Bill has never sworn allegiance to any man until Jack. Signed allegiance to ships, time and again, but the personal bond he has promised to Jack is unique in the course of his life, and binding. It's efficient, and it's profitable. Bill can't think like Jack can think, and Jack can't fight like Bill fights. Jack doesn't allow himself to kill. It's more than that, though, it doesn't work on just those principles, because Jack could have his pick of strong arms, but few could keep up with his banter the way Bill can, and Bill never needed Jack's brains to get by, before. It's about the companionship, also, admittedly. About mutual attraction that weighs most importantly on individual attractiveness. It's about passion, too, for freedom, and for the ocean, and not for pillage and profit, though there's pillaging and profiteering too. It's about a passion for each other that will never be a romantic love. Bill will not move mountains for Jack. If Jack can't talk them out of the way, he can walk over them like the rest of humanity. So much of how close they've grown and stayed has been because of the independence from each other they've maintained. It stems, perhaps, from their shared enjoyment of the thrill of the pursuit -- so little joy in the finality of the capture. Bill understands all that. Understands the way it works. Understands all the trust and understanding it takes for Jack to lower all his guards this way, naked and relaxed.
Bill tugs his coat on over his vest. He ties a scrap of scarf around his neck, knots it, and gazes a long time in contemplation of his slumbering companion, affection lingering in his mottled-blue eyes.
He crosses the floor to their pitcher of clean wash water.
Hefts it. Grins. And throws the water over the skinny man curled beneath the covers.
"Jack! It's about time for us to be heading to breakfast," he says, places his hat on his head, and tips it towards the startled black eyes flashing at him from the suddenly more tangled covers. It's as close to a bath, he laments, as Jack will be getting, water dripping over bare skin too greasy to hold it, onto the blankets still wrapped up around Jack's lean legs.
The slow change in his smile promises all manners of making up for the rude awakening.
Author: calichan
Pairing: Jack/Bill
Rating: PG-13? R? "Mature themes"
Notes: Once again, doesn't give as good an image of my Bill as it reflects another character through Bill, in this case, Jack. Someday I'll do a piece about my Bill directly. Really.
(I almost forgot to post this here because I thought I already had. Thanks ninglor!)
The room is dark, and it would be quiet but for the restless murmuring of the lithe, dark skinned thing curled on the bed beside him. The room would be still but for the occasional turn in slumber and twitching scritch of the man's fingers against the covers.
It is early, but Bill Turner has woken up for the day, and sleep refuses to reclaim him.
It is times like these, lying beside the man in a bed they share, that he realizes just how putrid Jack Sparrow smells, and gives contemplation to the thought of bathing him: hands on gold skin, kneading gently, working up those lean thighs, feeling the grease and the dirt rubbed free until there is only taunt but weathered skin beneath his fingers; hands working up further, to the juncture of those impatiently squirming legs, where in coarse curls is such a pungent, unwashed stench as should never have given a man such pleasures as come to mind at the thought of it -- a long time in those regions, then, until Jack's sloe eyes droop and his body slumps and he becomes more pliant and less wriggly at once; plenty of time, after that, to wash the rest of him while he's momentarily complacent, because the trick to keeping Jack Sparrow still is metering physical reward against otherwise unwanted attentions; he can wash the oil off that lean, skinny body and work the fetid smell out of the nooks beneath Jack's arms, and last, at last, get his fingers into that tangled mane. It doesn't take a lot to upkeep dreads with regular maintenance, he knows, on word of friends, oh no, but Jack's hair holds a special place in the annals of the world's great sewer systems -- the hours it would take to work from that hair the food, and rum, and sweat, and semen, and brine, and dirt, and vomit, and perfume, and whatever poor, small animals have crawled up into that jungle and died, Bill can never sufficiently comprehend.
When Jack Sparrow sleeps, Bill Turner often wastes good, long fantasies on giving him baths. Once Jack hits the water with the idea in mind to get clean, he cleans himself with the same brisk and thorough determination he lends to other matters, after all, so, as a matter of actually undertaking the feat, Bill declines.
He doesn't have to wonder how he ended up in bed with him again, despite the dull, acrid taste in the back of his throat which sticks as much from inhaling Jack as from kissing him. (Bill does not hold any illusions as to the quality of his own breath, but Jack's breath -- by any measure of things forsaken by the good Lord -- has achieved its own, magnificent breed of vile, and never improves, even when Jack's body is clean.)
It would be nice, Bill thinks, if Jack was not distracted by this and that and prostitutes too often to think to bathe, the times they are in port. But, Jack is as entertaining a companion as he is loyal, and as loyal as he is foul smelling, and as foul smelling as his sex is waves over the sand, ceaselessly rising and breaking, and bright, white lights at the back of your eyes -- Jack's sex, Bill is aware, is a force of nature.
He is aware, also, that he is one of the very few authorities on that matter, for though Jack Sparrow might seem ungodly thorough for the time he spends with any woman he meets, Jack Sparrow cannot impart all his tricks upon even the most willing flesh in just a one night stand. Jack makes up new tricks all the time.
Some more successful than others.
Bill winces as his train of thought lights on something particularly unsuccessful and last night. He disentangles himself from Jack's cloying limbs, ignores the mutter of protest as the slimmer man squirms forward to sprawl out in the wake of his warmth.
Jack's looking irritable in his sleep. Bill grins. He tugs the covers up over him. Jack has wiry muscles and little fat, no comparison with Bill's heavier build. Jack's a warm weather animal, and Bill disbelieves any claim he makes to his body's ability to endure the cold. Too scrawny, he says, and just your damn stubbornness to ignore it.
Bill relieves himself in the chamber pot and retrieves his razor from his things. He pours water into the wash basin, splashes his face off, first, before soaping his cheeks and leaning up to the small, stained mirror to work at shaping his beard up properly. It's grown shaggy since last he shaved it. He spots a few newly gray hairs. By the time he's done -- rinsed his face off and thrown the water out, his beard is back in respectable shape.
Nothing about Bill Turner is as respectable as the illusion of respectability he crafts.
He begins to dress. Jack's sleep talking rises an audible murmur -- "...and her tits... 'er tits...."
Bill has come to understand all the reasons so many of the women Jack dallies with take to slapping him. If he hasn't offended them awake, he'll offend them while he sleeps, if they give his dreams enough time.
Bill is most often no worse than amused. He's only pushed Jack out of bed once, at any rate. He sleeps quietly, himself, and rarely snores.
Bill tucks his shirt in and puts on his belt.
He's aware it's a privilege to watch Jack sleep like this. They're wary, both of them, and don't trust easily for they are both untrustworthy, themselves. Bill has never sworn allegiance to any man until Jack. Signed allegiance to ships, time and again, but the personal bond he has promised to Jack is unique in the course of his life, and binding. It's efficient, and it's profitable. Bill can't think like Jack can think, and Jack can't fight like Bill fights. Jack doesn't allow himself to kill. It's more than that, though, it doesn't work on just those principles, because Jack could have his pick of strong arms, but few could keep up with his banter the way Bill can, and Bill never needed Jack's brains to get by, before. It's about the companionship, also, admittedly. About mutual attraction that weighs most importantly on individual attractiveness. It's about passion, too, for freedom, and for the ocean, and not for pillage and profit, though there's pillaging and profiteering too. It's about a passion for each other that will never be a romantic love. Bill will not move mountains for Jack. If Jack can't talk them out of the way, he can walk over them like the rest of humanity. So much of how close they've grown and stayed has been because of the independence from each other they've maintained. It stems, perhaps, from their shared enjoyment of the thrill of the pursuit -- so little joy in the finality of the capture. Bill understands all that. Understands the way it works. Understands all the trust and understanding it takes for Jack to lower all his guards this way, naked and relaxed.
Bill tugs his coat on over his vest. He ties a scrap of scarf around his neck, knots it, and gazes a long time in contemplation of his slumbering companion, affection lingering in his mottled-blue eyes.
He crosses the floor to their pitcher of clean wash water.
Hefts it. Grins. And throws the water over the skinny man curled beneath the covers.
"Jack! It's about time for us to be heading to breakfast," he says, places his hat on his head, and tips it towards the startled black eyes flashing at him from the suddenly more tangled covers. It's as close to a bath, he laments, as Jack will be getting, water dripping over bare skin too greasy to hold it, onto the blankets still wrapped up around Jack's lean legs.
The slow change in his smile promises all manners of making up for the rude awakening.