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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: 2008-10-16 07:49 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Sorting through all his papers, finding the correct folders for all of them, signing and stapling where it's needed, James feels immensely pleased with himself. He always enjoys the mock trials much more than the hours of sitting through lectures and poring over massive law books, and this particular one was much more interesting than usual. Selwyn, the poor bastard, had been assigned to take the defence, but the defendant himself had hardly let him get a word in edgewise, spinning stories and coming up with some of the most creative excuses James had heard in a long time.

He'd still trounced him, of course.

So he's feeling very smug indeed as he makes his way out of the back room, wig and robes removed and looking more like a student than a particularly snarky ice cream cone. Selwyn gets a clap on the back and a wry 'Good show,' which gets James a good natured eye roll, and he slings his bag over his shoulder, heading out into the corridor.

He's frankly surprised to see the defendant- Jack Sparrow- hovering near one of the benches outside the library. James would have thought he'd be more the sort to bugger off as soon as he could and avoid the arrangement for as long as possible, but here he is. He's even more surprised when Sparrow steps out into his path and holds out a hand, grinning cheekily.

The comment about his wig affords a slight smirk through the bemused blinking, and he takes the hand proffered him gladly enough, giving it a firm squeeze. 'As circumstances dictated,' he murmurs wryly. 'James Norrington, as you know.'


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Jack Sparrow

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