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James disembarked from his ship with an almost indecorous amount of speed. He looked harried, worn, and cheerful. His shipmates all had a similar look about them- the look of soldiers returned home. James had eyes only for Jack, however, and was thus frantically looking for such a personage to affix them to
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With Jack it could easily have been both.
His cheekbones might have appeared sharper now, the kohl around his eyes applied heavier to disguise eyes that may have become slightly sunken. Or possibly not. Because if he were any less healthy than before, Jack's manner showed no indication, his hands waving delicate, senseless patterns in the air and his voice pitching lower for some dramatic, doubtlessly life-altering and completely true intonation.
Of course, were James to ask the native Londoners, they'd be sure to tell him that Captain Jack Sparrow was indeed quite mad, though they wouldn't know about any temper-tantrums, of course.
His attire, for example, was completely ridiculous. His shirt was closed at the throat - as any respectable man's would be - but managed to only look unusual and almost puritanical when worn thusly on Jack, and at his cuffs three layers of different colored cloth reveal that he's still wearing layers. Despite this being springtime. And he'd apparently managed to dig out his old, long, terribly outdated captain's coat. Coupled with his headscarf and unrepentantly unruly dreadlocks, it was managing to collect him quite a few odd looks.
So far, the citizens seemed to have deemed him harmless. As was so often the case with Jack, they were leaving him mostly alone. If mothers were perhaps giving him a wide berth as they led their children through the streets, it was understandable. Jack certainly didn't seem to notice or mind.
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"He's not the chief of anything, you know." James said, with slight mischief, as he had snuck up behind Jack. Hopefully it didn't give the poor ragtag pirate too much of a fright.
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Since it seemed so helpful, he blinked again, trying to regroup. That voice had to be who he thought it was, because the marines seemed to be standing rather better now and that voice had written of having quite the rank.
Feet dropping to thud against the barrel he swiveled, arms wide, delightedly grinning. "Co-something Norrie!"
The poor marines were obviously dismissed, never to know what the cannibals did next.
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"And how have you been?" There's a hint of concern there-- James has, after all, not been hearing good things.
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He hopped off the barrel, hands still a-flight. "Back to the ship?" was his hopeful suggestion. He wanted to actually say hello, without the silly formalities. And James would want to talk; that would be easier there as well.
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When the Black Pearl came into sight, she was rather the worse for wear. But not nearly as poorly as when the crew had, unbeknown to Jack, written James.
In fact, parts of her looked as good as new, and there were men hanging off her sides, applying a fresh coat of paint. That and the mending of her mast and the completely shattered window in the captain's quarters seemed the only remaining repairs needed. All but the last were in progress, and that was covered by a heavy curtain.
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Thus, with a small shrug to himself, he climbed aboard and headed straight for his cabin. Hearing one or two of the crew actually greet James and others take note of their first mate's return, a small smile returned to his face.
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"Worried," he admitted quietly, eyes closing briefly before opening to look squarely into James'. "Missed ye, luv."
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"They been takin' men. An' ships." That seemed explanation enough to Jack. And he was only explaining to James. Not to a crew member.
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"That they have. But no more. Not immediately, anyway."
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