He holds the finely cut crystal glass up to the light, appraising the rich, warm color of its contents. Firewater. He remembers his first experience as a boy with rum – probably some well-meaning uncle – and the unexpected burning sensation from what, by all appearances, could have been unusually dark cider, or unusually light molasses, or any number of equally harmless liquids. He likes to imagine that this is how the forge's cooling water would taste, absorbing the fire and edge of countless blades.
His eyes now turn to watch the good Captain working his way through his third round of drinks, coming within a hair's breadth of knocking over numerous glasses with his constant swaying and gesticulating and posturing, but never displacing a single drop of precious liquor. Strange how this man could be so buffoonish and still remain the wiliest man he has ever known. Quite the mass of contradicitons is Jack Sparrow.
He considers the glass again. Now that he thinks about it, he believes he understands a little more about this love affair between Jack and rum. For in spite of the initial heat searing a path to one's stomach, the lazy warmth in its wake is undeniably settling, not unlike the sway of a sun-drenched ship beneath his bare feet.
Jack and rum and ships. They all go together so well. Peas in a pod, love, one might even say.
Will shivers: he hopes to hear Jack slurring that sentiment – all sudden burn and sweet warmth and inexplicable calm – into his ear later tonight.