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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."

Date: 2008-10-23 02:35 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] 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.

Date: 2008-10-23 05:31 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] 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.'

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Jack Sparrow

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