In Which a Meeting for the Ages Occurs

[notjackkerouac]

The thing about England -- about Europe in general, in fact -- is that its public buildings have yet to develop an appreciation for air conditioning. Beads of sweat have started to gather on the back of Jack's neck as he slumps on a bench in the entrance hall of the King's College law library. June in London isn't anywhere near as humid as June in Thailand but the combination of boredom and lack of a breeze has begun to take its tole. Mister James L. Norrington, soon-to-be Esquire (information curtesy of a quick Google search in a cafe earlier this morning) seems to have a habit of taking his sweet time. Jack sighs and tries counting the tiles on the ceiling.

The other thing about England is that it doesn't install sofeted pannels in its ceilings. The archway stretches at least two stories high, done up in posh cheery wood with gilden trim, free of anything to count. Jack tilts his head and tries to imagine a mosaic up there, maybe someone like Cromwell in one of those horrible, hilarious wigs banging down the gavel of enternity on the Irish.

Jack would be the Irish in this analogy. Despite that, technically, he's as English as Cromwell was. Technicalities, Jack's always thought, are highly over-rated.

Even if a technicality is what will keep his arse out of jail for the rest of the month. Three days and a fine isn't a bad trade for keeping the Pearl safe. Landing in St. James Park was better than crashing into Big Ben, after all, and it's not like Jack could help the fact she was leaking oil all the way from Salzburg. Not in mid-air, at least.

In his hand, Jack holds a crumpled piece of paper with the name of the officer he's meant to turn himself into in a week's time. He could call now, introduce himself, try to arrange that week into two and those two weeks into never, but the only things he has in his pocket is €1, cigarettes, and some lint. There doesn't seem to be a phone booth around here anyway.

Court is really, really boring. Jack puffs at his fringe and then pulls himself up to smoke a fag outside. At least it will give him something to do with his fingers.

As he stands patting down his pockets (there are eight of them, when considering his socks sometimes serve as good storage space), a door down the hall swings open and the sound of very smart shoes come clipping down the hall.

James L. Norrington, soon-to-be Esq. looks entirely different than he did in the makeshirt courts. Without the robes and the wig (horrible, hilarious), attention can actually be focused on the strong line of his jaw, the broadness of his shoulders, the colour of his purse. (Bag.) Jack thinks the hue might be termed fawn. He wonders if Mister Norrington calls it that.

Tucking the filter of the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, Jack ruffles up his hair and walks to intercept his prey.

"You take a bloody long time to un-doff a wig, mate," Jack says when he gets within hearing distance. He holds out a hand, conviently blocking James L. from continuing on his merry little way. "Don't think we got a chance to be properly introduced."

Comments

[fortiter-in-re.livejournal.com]

It's strange, the way Jack touches him; for all the lewd promise in his voice, the tips of his fingers are so light as to barely be touching at all. It's gentle, caressing, as if James was something he might break if he isn't careful with him. It feels... nice, but it's unexpected.

Equally unexpected is the way Jack pulls away after that kiss, even more chaste and unprepossessing than James's had been. James casts a slightly confused look up at him, before shaking his head and getting to his own feet- with perhaps slightly less grace than Jack. Every time James thinks he knows what to expect, Jack changes the rules on him; weirdly enough, he's rather beginning to enjoy it.

So he cocks his head at Jack, considering for a moment, before bringing a hand up under his chin and drawing him in for a kiss. A proper kiss this time, his tongue slipping out to taste the liquor-flavoured heat of Jack's mouth, something deep and lingering. When he pulls away, he gives Jack a little smile, soft and only slightly mocking.

'That it does,' he agrees. 'Are you suggesting that the evening is coming to an end?'

[notjackkerouac.livejournal.com]

Jack watches as James lies still for a moment, chest rising and falling perhaps a bit more quickly for somebody who cannot be easily persuaded. The shadows are such that he can't see James' face, the patches of moon light illuminating more lines of his chest and jeans, where his arms fade off into the grass. It shifts around him as James stands, almost disappearing for a second as Jack eyes refocus to the shadows, the light only pooling around James' feet.

It nearly takes him off guard, then, to find James so close, close enough that Jack can put his hands on James' hips, thumb brushing little strokes over the fabric of his shirt, head tipped back a bit to meet James' eyes. It's strange, now that Jack can notice it, how tall James is. He hadn't noticed it walking next to James before, or in the court room, but tight together like this, James has a few inches on him.

Jack smiles at that, at the way James says absolutely nothing, just curls his fingers under Jack's chin to align their mouths for a kiss. Jack opens readily into it, seeking after wet warmth. He hums a little as James deepens the kiss, fingers tightening on his hips as Jack's breath grows heavier in his lungs. His eyes stay closed even after the kiss breaks and Jack sways a little, using James for support.

He only opens them when James speaks. About something Jack thinks he should follow but the words mean nothing to him with James still close. He licks at his lips and playfully shoves at James' chest, breaking away the contact.

"Unless you have any other ideas worth persuing," he offers, but there's no real intent behind the words. James only moves when Jack moves, and chasing has never been as fun as being chased. Jack knows well the times to run away. "But seems to me that, for an ending, this is a fair way to do it."

[fortiter-in-re.livejournal.com]

James easily rolls with the shove, keeping his balance whilst Jack sways on the spot. Jack's answer earns a little twitch of the muscles about the corners of his lips, and he nods agreement.

'It is tradition to end such a night with a kiss. No reason to deviate, I suppose.'

Twiddling his fingers towards Jack's hand just as Jack had done before, he sets off at a lazy pace down the hill, staring absently around him at the night. It has been, he reflects, a good, if entirely unexpected night. After a moment or two, he finds himself speaking.

'I'm only saying this because I've had a few drinks,' and because Jack is not at all a bad kisser, 'but if you want to call me...' He trails off, giving a little cough. 'I wouldn't entirely object.'

[notjackkerouac.livejournal.com]

James' palm is warm in Jack's hand, and lets James pull him along, wavering between close enough to let their shoulders bump and far enough that their arms stretch to full length. It's not that Jack's drunk (might be in the general vicinity but he hasn't reached that actual destination yet), and more than he finds he has no use for straight lines right now. That's the thing about meandering, after all.

It's nice, this, with James, and Jack holds his peace, enjoying the quiet while it lasts. Distantly, he can still hear cars passing and conversations happening, but mostly it's just the breeze and James' foot-falls over the grass, and Jack concentrates on that, the rhythm of just walking, just being.

Jack pulls a face when James starts that peculiar statement, mind skipping to guess the things he might say, then smiles at what it morphs into. "You would object only a little?" He swivels his hips, teasing and in high-spirits, but he does hold up a bare arm for James to write down his number. "And would that be to the ringing bit or the me part?"

Phone numbers are a curious thing. Jack doesn't have a phone -- or, he does, probably, possibly, but it's buried under trinkets and souveniers and other non-collectable collectables that haven't found a proper home just yet. But that's not the type of thing you mention to a bloke inscribing numbers on your arm.

[fortiter-in-re.livejournal.com]

The little half smile on James's face twists in on itself at Jack's words, and he pats himself down, searching for a pen. He finds one in the pocket of his blazer, and he produces it, feeling only slightly smug, taking Jack's proffered arm.

'I rather think you'll have to figure that part out for yourself. It'd take all the mystery out otherwise.'

James: he writes on Jack's arm, his usual firm, cursive hand made slightly awkward by the way the pen doesn't really seem to want to cooperate with him. He takes absent note of the hard lines of muscle in Jack's forearm, the sinuous lines of veins that stand up under the skin, and writes the number of his mobile along the length of one. The numbers waver slightly with the flexing of sinews and tendons under the skin.

'There you are.' He caps the pen, sticking it back in his pocket. There's a moment of slight awkwardness, and James shrugs, his hands finding places in the pockets of his jeans. 'If you feel like it.' Another pause. 'After your prison sentence, I suppose.'