Heaven, Jack's come to realize, is everything you're too bad to have. Never
had himself hung on the idea that if you walked your straight line,
you'd... Or well, you know the end. The Heaven bits, and the lights, and
the gates. That's all well and good.
He's rivaled the promised seat up on high with, well, "Ah' never was fond of heights, mate".
God, Jack thinks, has always had a grudge against him.
"Of all the rotten luck... The rum's gone."
"What was that?"
"Me bloody rum's gone!"
He was born with a healthy sense of the ridiculous: one needs rum to very well survive. And in this case, one needs massive amounts of rum to survive a trip so close to Heaven.
"You drank it all," William says.
"What! No, no, no.."
"Last night, Jack. On the bed, in front of the TV, all cow-eyed."
Jack puts a finger to his chin in order to help him think. He doesn't remember that.
"I don' remember that..."
"You know... 'Will, me luv, me dear luv, TV makes us God...'"
"Oh," Jack smiles, "'remember that." And he takes a step up onto the hotel bed. He hasn't slept in this yet, because as Will here told, when he came walking out of the shower last night Jack was sagging in one of the arm chairs. Piss drunk. Already.
He bounces, and pillows fall on the floor.
"We watch people's lives on TV, like God watches us. If we're sick of one, we can just--click--flip the channel and there's another. And another. We're like God's TV, mate."
"Get off the bed."
*
Jack Sparrow is swaying about in his seat with tiny airplane bottles of rum betwixt each finger.
"...drink up! Drink up!"
"Jack..."
"Yes'm, me dear?" he leans over the armrest and into Will's hot face, breath particularly foul with drink.
"Shut. Up."
Jack's come to realize, within such close range, Will is quite the looker.
*
The desert was no place for Jack Sparrow. It was hot. It was bright. There wasn't any rum, not for miles. And Will was there. Right there, trudging along and puffing out air. Jack had gotten them kicked off their bus to Vegas. Vegas, for the trouble of Will's unlucky woman.
"I think--"
"I don't want to hear what you think, Jack!" William yells, throwing an arm around.
They walk in quiet for an hour after that. Jack counting the minutes and watching the ground go by under his boots. Dust, dust, weeds, dust, rock. The bandana around his head is wet with sweat. William's tee see-thru and sticky.
"A sign! Look, look. Shade!"
The sign is yellow and blank, whatever had ever been on it at one point scraped off. Absolutely clean and this vivid puss yellow. Or maybe they forgot to put something on it. Or maybe, it's a sign of their current position. You are here, and here is nowhere. Move on.
William sits with his back against the sign post. He hangs his head. Jack watches the same sign with his two hands at his hips and a tilt to his head.
"What'd ye make it means?"
Will scowls when he looks up.
"I expect it's the hair," he says slowly.
"Ehh?"
"In the heat. The black hair. It's fried your brain."
"Too late for that, my sweat." And Will happens to smile.
It's for the pet names. Jack has always had a way of calling however and whatever by a handle. Luv, lovey, lad, my sweat, me dear. It's what he does, and Will's still sinking into it. He can't exactly say he doesn't like it... No one but Jack's done it before.
So he smiles. And Jack smiles. And Jack thinks maybe God doesn't have a grudge against him after all. He's just like everybody else. In the moment.
Jack was born with a healthy sense of the ridiculous, and he kisses Will flush on the lips when the lad's not looking. For a full three seconds because he was counting the entire time.
Let it never be said that Jack Sparrow wasn't mad.
He's rivaled the promised seat up on high with, well, "Ah' never was fond of heights, mate".
God, Jack thinks, has always had a grudge against him.
"Of all the rotten luck... The rum's gone."
"What was that?"
"Me bloody rum's gone!"
He was born with a healthy sense of the ridiculous: one needs rum to very well survive. And in this case, one needs massive amounts of rum to survive a trip so close to Heaven.
"You drank it all," William says.
"What! No, no, no.."
"Last night, Jack. On the bed, in front of the TV, all cow-eyed."
Jack puts a finger to his chin in order to help him think. He doesn't remember that.
"I don' remember that..."
"You know... 'Will, me luv, me dear luv, TV makes us God...'"
"Oh," Jack smiles, "'remember that." And he takes a step up onto the hotel bed. He hasn't slept in this yet, because as Will here told, when he came walking out of the shower last night Jack was sagging in one of the arm chairs. Piss drunk. Already.
He bounces, and pillows fall on the floor.
"We watch people's lives on TV, like God watches us. If we're sick of one, we can just--click--flip the channel and there's another. And another. We're like God's TV, mate."
"Get off the bed."
*
Jack Sparrow is swaying about in his seat with tiny airplane bottles of rum betwixt each finger.
"...drink up! Drink up!"
"Jack..."
"Yes'm, me dear?" he leans over the armrest and into Will's hot face, breath particularly foul with drink.
"Shut. Up."
Jack's come to realize, within such close range, Will is quite the looker.
*
The desert was no place for Jack Sparrow. It was hot. It was bright. There wasn't any rum, not for miles. And Will was there. Right there, trudging along and puffing out air. Jack had gotten them kicked off their bus to Vegas. Vegas, for the trouble of Will's unlucky woman.
"I think--"
"I don't want to hear what you think, Jack!" William yells, throwing an arm around.
They walk in quiet for an hour after that. Jack counting the minutes and watching the ground go by under his boots. Dust, dust, weeds, dust, rock. The bandana around his head is wet with sweat. William's tee see-thru and sticky.
"A sign! Look, look. Shade!"
The sign is yellow and blank, whatever had ever been on it at one point scraped off. Absolutely clean and this vivid puss yellow. Or maybe they forgot to put something on it. Or maybe, it's a sign of their current position. You are here, and here is nowhere. Move on.
William sits with his back against the sign post. He hangs his head. Jack watches the same sign with his two hands at his hips and a tilt to his head.
"What'd ye make it means?"
Will scowls when he looks up.
"I expect it's the hair," he says slowly.
"Ehh?"
"In the heat. The black hair. It's fried your brain."
"Too late for that, my sweat." And Will happens to smile.
It's for the pet names. Jack has always had a way of calling however and whatever by a handle. Luv, lovey, lad, my sweat, me dear. It's what he does, and Will's still sinking into it. He can't exactly say he doesn't like it... No one but Jack's done it before.
So he smiles. And Jack smiles. And Jack thinks maybe God doesn't have a grudge against him after all. He's just like everybody else. In the moment.
Jack was born with a healthy sense of the ridiculous, and he kisses Will flush on the lips when the lad's not looking. For a full three seconds because he was counting the entire time.
Let it never be said that Jack Sparrow wasn't mad.