"You smell of distance.
Battered masts and sails,
exhausted from their struggle with the deep,
crowd in the harbor as I drop asleep,
feeling your breathing
while my soul is winging
its way above strange shores
and distant hills.
Listen.
Far off.
Hark to the sailors singing."
~Baudelaire

One of the most memorable times that they'd... er... been together...(that is, memorable for something other than threats, shackles, swearing, chases, righteous indignation, abuse of James's wig, hidden clothing, trauma, or general hysteria), Jack had climbed in James's window at dusk smelling of freshly baked bread.

There was no end to the list of unusual things that Jack Sparrow could smell like on any given day, and the unpleasant tended to outweigh the pleasant, depending on the season or how long he'd been at sea. Sweat, of course. Alcohol, almost always. Dead fish, occasionally. The man had adopted a wary skittish look upon gaining his lover's balcony that had nothing to do with the fact that his lover happened to be law-bound to see him hang. That was in no way a problem. It was the bathtub he knew to be lurking not far down the hall that concerned him. He'd been hauled off (Bodily! The nerve!) and dumped in, fully clothed, more than once.

The bread was a new sensation, though. James found out later that his mad lover had spent the better part of 12 hours hiding in a cluster of empty barrels behind the nearby baker's shop... waiting for dusk and a clear enough coast to slink his way up the lit bedchamber window he could see from his little hidy-hole... Nearly been caught twice, too... Decided to pass the time feeding stolen bread to the birds, and the flock of friendly little beasties had grown rather suspicious by the end of the day... The story was cut off by James's mouth descending with rather astonishing force.

When he could speak again, Jack demanded, "Here, what's all this, luv?"

James crushed up against his lean frame, face buried in the wild mane of Jack's hair, sniffing appreciatively. "God, Jack. You smell bloody marvelous." He could hear the smirk in the pirate's voice when he answered.

"No dunking tonight, I take it?"

"No. Mmmphh. Most certainly not..."

"Did you (gasp) skip lunch or somethin', mate? Ahh..."

James sucked hungrily at the scented skin beneath his lips, tasting. Decided that sucking wasn't nearly enough, and forged a nibbled trail along one tendon, towards that lovely dip of collarbone he admired so much. Jack was writhing in his grip, tugging his shirttails up to run rough hands over his back. Caught him by the waistband of his breeches to yank him in closer. Their hips met, hard, and James groaned against tanned flesh.

"Remembering the bakery," Jack was gasping. "Right-o, the bakery it is... Ah!! Uhnnn... Oh God, Jamie..."

Yes, the bread was memorable.

Then there were the rare nights, late winter nights, when the wind was cold enough even in this tropical paradise to put the chimneys to work. When the dark sleek shape slid into the Commodore's bed in a quiet cloud of leather, wood smoke, salt. Autumn scents. Scents of England. They were long nights, slow with kissing and quiet words heavy with sleep. Stories told about a mutual home that neither of them were likely to see again for many a year, while James mapped out all the pirate's old scars that still throbbed in the cold weather, and let Jack tease him as long as he liked for going so soft that he'd actually need an extra blanket, even in the Caribbean. Knowing that in the morning the wool would still hold the scent of winter pirate.

Familiar smells and unfamiliar smells, and altogether indescribable smells.

There was that one time... What was it? He could never remember the name Jack had given it later on, when he could talk straight again, but whatever it was, it had the dubious distinction of being the only substance to schnocker Jack Sparrow so thoroughly that he had to use the front door instead of climbing in through the window.

"Honestly, Sparrow, what have you gotten youself int—Oh. Good Lord. What is that... odd smell...?"

Jack swayed into his arms languidly, grinning a grin that James had never seen on his face before. It was really rather... silly. "I dunno. I could tell ye the name but I really don't think I could pronounce me own jus now..."

James half-dragged the rather pungent pirate into the hall and locked the door firmly behind him. The smell in these close quarters was almost overpowering, but not actually unplesant. A heavy burning smell, exotic and... OhJackwasunbuttoninghistrousers.

"Stop that! At least say hello properly first!!" James tried to slap his hands away, but the man eluded him easily, dipping and swaying, and finally flopping his entire self over to hang off the Commodore's sturdy form. James scowled, his arms full of oddly smelly pirate. "What's gotten into you?"

"Heh heh heh... could make a joke bout that one Jamie. Ah. Yes... what were you saying...?"

James held Jack out at arm's length. The pirate flopped around bonelessly in his grip, still grinning, while he looked him over. He was used to a drunk Jack reeking of rum, or whatever else he happened to drink on the way to rum, stumbling in his window, possibly throwing up. This was a new kind of intoxication alltogether. The pirate's eyes were hugely dilated. They were absolutely eerie in the dim light.

"Were down in Tortuga for a week or so... few of the lads come back off leave with this lovely stuff... dunno what the hell it is but did you notice how bloody beautiful the sunset was tonight, luv... I really do love you without that damn wig, Jamie... love you anyway, but especially without the wig..."

James blinked. The fumes of whateveritwas must have been getting to him. He was beginning to feel a bit woozy and if he didn't know better he would have sworn that Captain Jack Sparrow just told him that he loved him. "Er... Jack... why don't you lie down for a bit. Yes? I think that sounds like a very good idea."

"Sure, whatever you say, Jamieluv..."

Jack followed him along to the bedroom, docile as a lamb, collapsed easily onto the bed, chuckling to himself, humming a little tuneless tune, totally oblivious as James stooped to pull off his boots, completely absorbed by playing with the corner of the bedcover. Until James came within grabbing distance, whereupon the taller man found himself corralled, flipped, and pinned under the very hard body of Jack Sparrow.

Who looked down at him with those hugely dark, heavy-lidded eyes and husked, "Missed you, James."

The night passed very slowly. Very, very slowly, languidly, heavy with the scent of burning and sex and it wasn't until just before dawn that a tousled and very confused Jack lifted his head from James's chest and said, "I am bloody famished, mate. Please tell me you got something to eat in this house. And how'd we get up here, anyway?"

James put a hand to his throbbing head. "Do you know, I can't remember?"

So much life could hide in the creases of cloth or a twist of hair.

So often James found himself lying there, half listening to that familiar rambling drawl spin him a tale of some adventure or another, as he pressed in close and breathed in the strangeness of whatever Jack had carried home with him. Odd little illustrations. A piece of a place that he could only see through Jack's words, but touch and taste and smell on his skin and lips and hair. As perfectly tactile as the foreign charms and beads and tattoos and scars. Strange places that James, sailor that he was, might never see.

Jack belonged to the world. He brought the world in with him.

And yet.

One night, as they lay amidst rumpled sheets, sweat drying slowly in the humid air, James was roused from half-sleep by Jack burrowing his nose in the crook of his neck and breathing in a deep, deep breath. Letting it out in a long, long sigh that ghosted ticklish, over James's skin. He lay still while the process was repeated, and again, until finally Jack settled back into the mattress with a huff of contentment.

"What was that all about?" he asked quietly. The answer was a long time in coming.

"Like yer scent. Good to know a friend's scent. Lover's scent." Jack rolled over onto his back, sprawled easily across the sheets. "Never know when you'll have to find 'em in the dark..." James smiled.

"...You can smell alot of things, if you're sharp. Where they're coming from... Maybe where they're going..."

Jack's voice came slow and lazy out of the dark, rough with sleep. Palm fronds rustled outside in the garden and the breeze carried with it the scent of the sea.

"If you're extra sharp, you can smell a betrayer, or an honest man..."

James reached out and encountered warm skin, found a hand, twined fingers with his.

"You can smell when they're the right one, or just passing through..."

Chuckling a little, James asked, "What do I smell like, then?"

Jack rolled and pulled himself up to hover over James, nose to nose, for a long moment. Then he dipped, caught lips with his own, and breathed deep. Licked, plunged in deep to taste, and sighed.

"You smell like mine, luv."