James merely raises an eyebrow at the lewd jibe and does not respond, only vaguely listening as Sparrow explains something about sunlight hitting the eastern window. To James's ear, it sounds suspiciously like something out of a bad novel, but fitting indeed that the pirate should keep time not by any civilised clock, but by the lines and angles of light in the sky. It's something all seamen should be able to do, but the Navy is not strict about it- rather foolish, really; after all, what happens when one's clock runs down or is swept overboard? He shakes his head faintly- his mind is prone to wandering in the morning, more than is good for him, especially in the presence of one such as Sparrow.
He is honestly surprised when Sparrow notices the direction of his gaze and actually suggests a book for reading. He murmurs something suspiciously resembling 'Indeed,' and makes his way over to the lone volume, picking it up and looking at it curiously. It's battered and worn, even more so than the others- James wonders if Sparrow has merely had it longer than they or if it has some special significance. He guesses the latter, seeing as the pirate has apparently gone to the trouble to mend it, re-binding it crudely with string. He opens it gingerly, almost afraid that it might break, and leafs through the pages. It has been a long time since he read or spoke any Italian, and he was never fluent in the language, but he knows enough to make out the meaning, and he closes the book with a snap and turns to Sparrow once again.

The words- whatever they were- die in his throat as he turns, for Sparrow is sprawled out across the bed, fast asleep, his fingers twitching slightly and lips mouthing silently. Though he is a small man, he somehow manages to take up the entire bed, and the corner of James's mouth twitches. Why he is feeling so charitable toward the pirate this morning, he cannot tell, but he doesn't feel like fighting it at the moment, so he settles down in his chair from the night before (moving it back from the bed, though- he sees no reason to be as close to Sparrow as that) and opens the book to begin reading.

It’s difficult work, as his Italian doesn’t seem to come back to him as quickly as he might have hoped, and he feels the frustration of his lack of skill. He is sure this is a good book; what he can read seems to be excellent, but he knows that he isn’t picking up the true nuances of prose and description, and he soon shuts the book irritably, looking once again over to Sparrow. He is not used to the sensation of being unskilled- he has, after all, spent his entirely life training in order to be skilled, and it rankles at him when something seems beyond his ability or capacity.

He wonders, briefly, if this bizarre thing with the pirate is something along the same lines- Sparrow frustrates him and intrigues him so because he’s like that slim grey volume of Italian; he can understand some of it, but not all, and not nearly enough to satisfy his interest. Furthermore, the understanding he seeks seems to be beyond even his military skills. He wrinkles his nose; he’s comparing Jack Sparrow to a book. What next, writing poetry about the pirate?

But he watches him nonetheless, thinking absently until with a sudden glint, the light of the sun strikes the eastern window, just as Sparrow had said it would. He tilts his head to the side, looking expectantly at the figure on the bed. Kohl-rimmed eyes wink open and Sparrow stretches, yawning like a lion. James regards him coolly; his ire at the book Sparrow had given him has not entirely subsided, and he finds himself rather less inclined to be as good-humoured as before.

‘And Sleeping Beauty rises,’ he drawls sardonically, ‘Can we get about our business now?’