If Jack was the type of man to write little reminder notes to hisself, he would indelibly write one that read something along the lines of: Do not make piracy as a possible future employment option references to the Commodore. Make no comments, no jibes of the nature, because more than anything it seems to be the largest area on Norrington's map that is labelled Not A Laughing Matter.
In fact, it might be a good idea to have it inked somewhere onto his skin so that he mightn't ever forget it again, like his forehead. Except that he could never be able to see his own forehead without some sort of aide. Like looking over the side of the ship into the water to study his reflection each morning. And that would put a crimp in his otherwise easy morning rituals. Maybe he could tattoo it on Norrington's forehead instead...
Jack turns his attention back out to listen to Norrington for a second but the Commodore is still prattling on about something. He doesn't have much a mind to pay attention to what it is at this moment, as the icy tone of voice clearly communicates that Norrington is most likely chastising him for his chosen walk of life. And listening to the side of a debate that can never be completely squared -- at least not yet; Jack has hopes that an extended stay on day on board the Pearl with her charms and at night in his cabin with his charms might cause the Commodore to re-think his staunch stance on the nature of vagabonds -- is not something that will ever appeal. His eyes drift off to the side halfway through Norrington's words to blandly study the woodwork on the walls of his cabin.
It is not until the "Furthermore" that Jack's attention is regained. The pained undercurrent to the words, as if it physically hurts him to admit such a thing, catches Jack's curiosity again. He drifts his eyes back to Norrington's face and watches him with a dawning expression of surprise. Never in all his assumptions of the Commodore did Jack once consider that he would place his position as a sailor before his position as a leader. To be someone who regards decent hours' work over a name and prestigious title. Jack's eyebrows are near his hairline and a baffled smile struggles to spread its way on his face.
It takes him a few minutes to find the right reaction in order to respond to that comment. And even then he can do little more than stare perplexed at Norrington, wrist swivling limping where he's held it out this entire time.
Almost disbelievingly, Jack muses, "I confess I'm finding it a bit hard to be believing you were ever a sailor, mate. More'n likely you were born with that wig on your head and all that..." He gestures to Norrington's dress. "... brocade straight out of your mummy's womb."
Jack tilts his head and this time a wide smile does break loose as he considers. "Just to think on that... a young Norrington, not more than a kiddie, running about wig and uniform clad..." The image is one that Jack finds considerably endearing.
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In fact, it might be a good idea to have it inked somewhere onto his skin so that he mightn't ever forget it again, like his forehead. Except that he could never be able to see his own forehead without some sort of aide. Like looking over the side of the ship into the water to study his reflection each morning. And that would put a crimp in his otherwise easy morning rituals. Maybe he could tattoo it on Norrington's forehead instead...
Jack turns his attention back out to listen to Norrington for a second but the Commodore is still prattling on about something. He doesn't have much a mind to pay attention to what it is at this moment, as the icy tone of voice clearly communicates that Norrington is most likely chastising him for his chosen walk of life. And listening to the side of a debate that can never be completely squared -- at least not yet; Jack has hopes that an extended stay on day on board the Pearl with her charms and at night in his cabin with his charms might cause the Commodore to re-think his staunch stance on the nature of vagabonds -- is not something that will ever appeal. His eyes drift off to the side halfway through Norrington's words to blandly study the woodwork on the walls of his cabin.
It is not until the "Furthermore" that Jack's attention is regained. The pained undercurrent to the words, as if it physically hurts him to admit such a thing, catches Jack's curiosity again. He drifts his eyes back to Norrington's face and watches him with a dawning expression of surprise. Never in all his assumptions of the Commodore did Jack once consider that he would place his position as a sailor before his position as a leader. To be someone who regards decent hours' work over a name and prestigious title. Jack's eyebrows are near his hairline and a baffled smile struggles to spread its way on his face.
It takes him a few minutes to find the right reaction in order to respond to that comment. And even then he can do little more than stare perplexed at Norrington, wrist swivling limping where he's held it out this entire time.
Almost disbelievingly, Jack muses, "I confess I'm finding it a bit hard to be believing you were ever a sailor, mate. More'n likely you were born with that wig on your head and all that..." He gestures to Norrington's dress. "... brocade straight out of your mummy's womb."
Jack tilts his head and this time a wide smile does break loose as he considers. "Just to think on that... a young Norrington, not more than a kiddie, running about wig and uniform clad..." The image is one that Jack finds considerably endearing.