"Useful in the Navy? I were always under the impression you lot were rather sharp and straight about whatever morning rituals you might be having." Jack grins a bit lecherously but it quickly pitters out into nothing more than good humour.
The ease between them is an odd thing, especially naught just a few hours before Norrington was ready to shoot him as sure as he was standing and a few hours before that Norrington was asking him to persuade him to stay. That's curious, the reason why Norrington would ask that of him. But of course it matters little now as Jack did do some persuading of a kind and Norrington had no choice left but to stay.
But Jack doesn't want to waste time contemplating such things as such an hour as this. Norrington seems to be a completely different man after a night's rest -- refreshed as it seemed. While Jack still felt run down and run through, though not as jittery and high strung as he once was. This was a new day, new start -- or it would be after Jack has a few more hours of sleep.
"Merciful hours what you've lost, I reckon. I get up when the sun strikes that pane in the eastern window. Don't have a clock worth the reading but when the sun hits that spot, that's as good as time any to be waking. Which it seems to me is still a couple hours from now."
He sways in his spot and then because the bed is right behind hisself, always his person to topple backwards (like a bird glinding across the water on landing, it is; an elegant toppling) onto the plush spread. The threads smells like rum and ship and sea air, and just the barest hint of Commodore. He twists in the smooth silks and fine weaves, letting the aches from sleeping in a chair for half the night be removed by the comfort of having his bed under his back. Finally he finds the best position possible and then rolls his head over to his shoulder, fingers plucking at random points in the air, as he watches Norrington look around his cabin.
Jack notices his eyes widen at the small collection of books he's kept over the years. There's less than a dozen of them, most beated and battered with age and saltwater, but Jack has kept a firm protection over them. They all came to his ownership in a myriad of impossible and outrageous ways, books be having hard to come by in his line of work. But there one isn't with the pile of others.
"If you're wanting something to do, mate, while Morpheus becomes me and Naval precisions keeps you from letting the same be done to yourself, and books are what snag you're interest, might I be recommending that small one of there?"
He points to the small shelf hung above the opposite of the bed. It only hold a stub of a candle cradled in the broken base of a rum bottle and the book he means. The leather of the bind has worn away near completely and it's now bound with a string to keep the pages together between the two sheaths of grey coverlette. It bears a title what's in Italian and beneath that, scraped into the flesh of the leather, two initails.
no subject
The ease between them is an odd thing, especially naught just a few hours before Norrington was ready to shoot him as sure as he was standing and a few hours before that Norrington was asking him to persuade him to stay. That's curious, the reason why Norrington would ask that of him. But of course it matters little now as Jack did do some persuading of a kind and Norrington had no choice left but to stay.
But Jack doesn't want to waste time contemplating such things as such an hour as this. Norrington seems to be a completely different man after a night's rest -- refreshed as it seemed. While Jack still felt run down and run through, though not as jittery and high strung as he once was. This was a new day, new start -- or it would be after Jack has a few more hours of sleep.
"Merciful hours what you've lost, I reckon. I get up when the sun strikes that pane in the eastern window. Don't have a clock worth the reading but when the sun hits that spot, that's as good as time any to be waking. Which it seems to me is still a couple hours from now."
He sways in his spot and then because the bed is right behind hisself, always his person to topple backwards (like a bird glinding across the water on landing, it is; an elegant toppling) onto the plush spread. The threads smells like rum and ship and sea air, and just the barest hint of Commodore. He twists in the smooth silks and fine weaves, letting the aches from sleeping in a chair for half the night be removed by the comfort of having his bed under his back. Finally he finds the best position possible and then rolls his head over to his shoulder, fingers plucking at random points in the air, as he watches Norrington look around his cabin.
Jack notices his eyes widen at the small collection of books he's kept over the years. There's less than a dozen of them, most beated and battered with age and saltwater, but Jack has kept a firm protection over them. They all came to his ownership in a myriad of impossible and outrageous ways, books be having hard to come by in his line of work. But there one isn't with the pile of others.
"If you're wanting something to do, mate, while Morpheus becomes me and Naval precisions keeps you from letting the same be done to yourself, and books are what snag you're interest, might I be recommending that small one of there?"
He points to the small shelf hung above the opposite of the bed. It only hold a stub of a candle cradled in the broken base of a rum bottle and the book he means. The leather of the bind has worn away near completely and it's now bound with a string to keep the pages together between the two sheaths of grey coverlette. It bears a title what's in Italian and beneath that, scraped into the flesh of the leather, two initails.
J.T.