Warnings: Slashy thougths ahead. If it squicks you, then don't read it.
Author's Notes: I tried to make this a drabble, I really tried, but for the life of me, I can't find one surplus word in here. A cookie to anyone who can help me out!
He dreams of it, every night. He can't help himself. It's wrong, bad, everything he wish he didn't want. And he can't stop imagining it.
How it would be, how it would happen. He knows it doesn't do him right, but he doesn't care. It's his damn fantasy, after all.
The smell is what he misses the most. Old, spicy leather, with a hint of musk. In his dreams, that's when his memories are clearest. Everything is clearer then, more right. Just right.
And in the morning, when he smiles, freckles and brown eyes... Jack remembers, and tries to smile back.