He'd expected Sparrow to agree to his proposition, but nonetheless there is a distinct feeling of relief when the pirate nods at him, accepting the terms. Then, however, there's a silence, wherein Sparrow (presumably) considers what exactly he wants to ask James, staring (rather disconcertingly) at the corner of his mouth. James's eyes flick down as if they could see what he is looking at, but of course that's ridiculous, and he gazes over the top of Sparrow's head at the far wall, finding nothing terribly interesting there, but it's much preferable to actually looking at the pirate while he thinks.
When he finally does, James's sense of relief melts like an ice cube in the sun, sending his stomach spiralling down somewhere near his toes. His whole body stiffens. That is a question he is not prepared to answer, not at all. Not because he doesn't know the answer, oh no- he knows it well- but that is not something he's going to share with Sparrow. It's not something he has ever shared with anybody.
There are, of course, any number of lies he could make up- his mother was killed by pirates, his mother was a pirate, or the simple fact that that's what civilised people did- hate pirates. That the pirate life stood against the order he tried so hard to enforce day by day. That part is true, of course, but it isn't the answer to Sparrow's question, and he is sure that Sparrow knows that.
'No,' he says, making his voice cold and stiff, 'There are some truths better left unsaid, Mister Sparrow, and that is one of them. Anything else, I will tell you true, but not that.'
But Sparrow won't buy it, he knows. Or he shouldn't. Indeed, he feels curiously that he might almost be disappointed if the other man left it at that. Not that he wants to tell him, not at all, but simply because he knows that Sparrow is like himself in that respect- he's not a man to leave something lie, an anomaly, a mystery. He hates the knowledge, but knows it to be true. And so still he stares at that spot on the wall, waiting for Sparrow to call him out.
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When he finally does, James's sense of relief melts like an ice cube in the sun, sending his stomach spiralling down somewhere near his toes. His whole body stiffens. That is a question he is not prepared to answer, not at all. Not because he doesn't know the answer, oh no- he knows it well- but that is not something he's going to share with Sparrow. It's not something he has ever shared with anybody.
There are, of course, any number of lies he could make up- his mother was killed by pirates, his mother was a pirate, or the simple fact that that's what civilised people did- hate pirates. That the pirate life stood against the order he tried so hard to enforce day by day. That part is true, of course, but it isn't the answer to Sparrow's question, and he is sure that Sparrow knows that.
'No,' he says, making his voice cold and stiff, 'There are some truths better left unsaid, Mister Sparrow, and that is one of them. Anything else, I will tell you true, but not that.'
But Sparrow won't buy it, he knows. Or he shouldn't. Indeed, he feels curiously that he might almost be disappointed if the other man left it at that. Not that he wants to tell him, not at all, but simply because he knows that Sparrow is like himself in that respect- he's not a man to leave something lie, an anomaly, a mystery. He hates the knowledge, but knows it to be true. And so still he stares at that spot on the wall, waiting for Sparrow to call him out.