"Doesn't matter. A name that will most likely mean nothing to you."
He doesn't say such harshly. Just states the fact. Jack doesn't know how high up James has dealing with East Indian Trading Company. If he would have ever met Cutler Beckett. Heard his name, surely, as all who concern themselves with English trade do. But to hear stories of a man and know the man himself are two completely seperate things. Jack knows this better than anyone.
And he is tiring of this sober coversation. Takes another long drink of rum and ambles back towards the table, to have something else to do and look at apart from James. Apart from the still frazzled look that mars his features. Jack prefers him teasing, jibing than brunt openess. May even prefer the cold exterior of the Commodore to this, as little fun as he is that way. But like this, it causes Jack to feel unbalanced. Doesn't know where to place his next footfall. Doesn't know the terms of the trade they are actually doing right now.
It makes him feel like telling the man. Confiding in him. And what a dangerous thing that may prove to be, with Norrington being as honest and open as he is right now. Jack feels like he owes him and he doesn't know. He's sure he doesn't.
And yet...
Setting the rum on the table, Jack stares at the array of maps before him. Studies the outlined coast of Africa and tries hard not to remember.
"It weren't the noose, exactly," he murmurs. "And it weren't exactly me either what was condemned. Not as I am now."
He rolls his arms until his sleeve falls back enough that he can make out the pirate brand. The bottom, tip of his sparrow tattoo. He isn't sure if James can see it or not, or will possibly understand what Jack is almost, sort of, telling him. Jack doesn't understand quite himself why he should feel obliged to tell him such a thing in the first place.
no subject
He doesn't say such harshly. Just states the fact. Jack doesn't know how high up James has dealing with East Indian Trading Company. If he would have ever met Cutler Beckett. Heard his name, surely, as all who concern themselves with English trade do. But to hear stories of a man and know the man himself are two completely seperate things. Jack knows this better than anyone.
And he is tiring of this sober coversation. Takes another long drink of rum and ambles back towards the table, to have something else to do and look at apart from James. Apart from the still frazzled look that mars his features. Jack prefers him teasing, jibing than brunt openess. May even prefer the cold exterior of the Commodore to this, as little fun as he is that way. But like this, it causes Jack to feel unbalanced. Doesn't know where to place his next footfall. Doesn't know the terms of the trade they are actually doing right now.
It makes him feel like telling the man. Confiding in him. And what a dangerous thing that may prove to be, with Norrington being as honest and open as he is right now. Jack feels like he owes him and he doesn't know. He's sure he doesn't.
And yet...
Setting the rum on the table, Jack stares at the array of maps before him. Studies the outlined coast of Africa and tries hard not to remember.
"It weren't the noose, exactly," he murmurs. "And it weren't exactly me either what was condemned. Not as I am now."
He rolls his arms until his sleeve falls back enough that he can make out the pirate brand. The bottom, tip of his sparrow tattoo. He isn't sure if James can see it or not, or will possibly understand what Jack is almost, sort of, telling him. Jack doesn't understand quite himself why he should feel obliged to tell him such a thing in the first place.