jackxwill - pirates of the caribbean slash

Title: Enchantment Passing Through
Author: when_it_rained (littlemarshmallows@hotmail.com)
Pairings: J/W, J/Bill
Rating: PG13
Summary: Everyone says Will is exactly like his father. Jack wishes that was true.

Exactly like his father.

They all say that. I said it at some point. It’s true enough, if you don’t care to really look. But then I’ve never been one for close inspection. Leads to all sorts of questions, and questions lead to thinking and thinking leads to connection and memory and pain and all that other rot that I’d much rather drown in a bottle of good dark rum.

The similarities are striking, though. I look at him here, sleeping, and if I squint a little, and if I’ve had enough rum, I can fool myself. I can see it in the jawline – square, strong, but soft. The same curve of the lips.

He has his father’s long lashes. The boy’s nearly as pretty as I am. Or used to be. Was? Were. He couldn’t pull off the hair, though. Nor could Bill. Don’t think he would’ve tried. He never was that particular about his hair.

It’s the eyes. Those same dark eyes. Always looking to the fading horizon. Bill, though, you know. He smiled more. At Will’s age, he already had laugh lines. Couldn’t hold his liquor, either. Surprised he made such a good pirate, really. Aye, we laughed in those days.

How old am I, I wonder, to have loved the father and the son? Wouldn’t you like to know. Wouldn’t I like to know. My age was lost somewhere between the borders of drunkenness and occasional insanity.

The nose. I don’t have a bloody clue where he got that nose. Mother’s side.

I’m reaching for the rum, swallowing what’s left in the bottle.

Will’s waking up. His warm brown eyes glitter in the guttering torchlight as he smiles sleepily. A soft hand reaches for me. His fingers graze my thigh. The hands. The hands are all wrong. Too soft, too slender – this new heat rushing through me is something more than rum. Still, the rum’s a part of it – always has to be, always completes the illusion. So I squint a little, and I let myself remember, and I reach for him. I meet his eyes – his father’s eyes. Bill’s eyes. There’s a smile there. Kissing him, every part of him. All I hear is breathing. Soft and quick as my lips roam his neck, moving slowly upwards.

Blur. Heat. Vertigo.

His mouth tastes of ale, and his skin tastes of salt and sea air. Breathing. Heavy. Harsh. Rhythm. Pulsing, and all those simple intricacies we only comprehend in the heat of the moment.

After. Not quite dawn. I don’t really know what I’m doing as my fingers walk their way up his thigh. The bed feels as though it’s swaying and I haven’t a clue where I really am. I’m nowhere. Everywhere. Doesn’t matter. I might vomit.

I know there’s a little mole here. At the top of his left buttock. I’ve kissed that spot so many times, often in a fit of romantic fancy. My favourite spot on his whole –

There’s nothing there. Smooth, pale flesh, and nothing more. The muscles beneath the skin aren’t nearly as firm as they ought to be. The hips are too slender. The breath too light, the hair too dark.

Gibbs said to me before we came ashore something that landed him the pleasant task of washing the deck by himself. “He’s not his father, you know.”

Now I’m whispering to the dark that, no. No, he’s not his father at all.

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