In Which a Meeting for the Ages Occurs
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
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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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He turns to follow James L. down the hall. It's clear that he wasn't expecting Jack to turn up again and there's something pleasing in that, that Jack can still catch a man off-guard when he sets his mind to it. He's been out of London for four months and got a bit lax at chatting people up.
He holds the door open for James as they pass outside. Now would be the time to light his cigarette except he still can't place where his lighter went. "Have a light on you? Must have misplaced mine." He positions himself slightly in front of James, keeping himself in the way, so that James can't run off on him.
"Pretty fancy footwork, er, voicework in there. Know your subject well."
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'Well, one does one's job,' he offers mildly. 'Er, Jack. It was good to meet you, I'm sure,' he starts to say, walking off down the corridor, but it soon becomes clear that Jack is following him, and James's mouth twists slightly to avoid a smirk. Stepping out, he inclines his head with that same mixture of amusement and confusion as Jack holds open the door for him- a proper gentleman.
Persistent, apparently. And again, James isn't quite sure how he feels about that. It would be easy to be slightly creeped out by the whole thing, but it's been a long while since James was out with anyone, and he had enjoyed himself arguing with the man back in court- because really, Selwyn had fallen out of the equation very early on indeed.
'Mmm?' He makes a small questioning noise when Jack asks him for a lighter, and he digs in his bag for a moment before producing one- a fancy zippo affair. He doesn't smoke often, but he likes to carry one with him regardless. One never knows, after all.
It's a spur of the moment decision, and perhaps it's slightly daft, but if this Jack wants to play the gentleman for James, he can do the same thing. So he doesn't hand the lighter over, but holds it up to light Jack's cigarette for him, lifting one eyebrow as he snaps it shut, stowing it back in his bag.
'I should certainly hope so,' he says, in response to Jack's comment. 'I'd hardly make much of a "soon to be Esquire" if I didn't.' A wry pause. 'Though you seemed to know your way about nearly as well as I do.'
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Not possibly a story to bring up after being freshly released from court.
"Experience tends to lend itself to knowledge," Jack goes with instead, breathing out smoke.
Which perhaps isn't any better than the Benny Black comment, telling a man that this isn't his first go-around with the long arm, but it's almost a point of pride with Jack. And James should already have access to his record if he's as good as he seemed.
He holds the cigarette out for James to take if he wants. A man what has a lighter probably has something to light. And James doesn't seem the type to be an arsonist by night. Though how anyone can light a large fire at night, Jack doesn't know.
"You think arsonists carry torches with them when they go?" he asks absently. "Or do you think they just chance it? Tried many cases yet? You're in your final year, yeah?"
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He knows perfectly well what Jack means by 'experience,' of course. You don't run a criminal trial without checking the background of the defendant, after all, and Jack's criminal record was in the system along with everybody else's- some theft, counts of drunk and disorderly conduct, and- rather bizarrely- masquerading as an Anglican priest. Frankly, though, it's not any of James's business to pry outside of the courtroom. And it's not as if he's never broken the law himself.
He takes the cigarette when Jack passes it, lifting it to his lips and tipping his head back to exhale a long stream of smoke. One eyebrow lifts into his fringe at the question, and he takes another quick drag before passing the fag back.
'I rather doubt most arsonists are the victims of spontaneous whim, if that's what you're asking.' He doesn't answer Jack's other question, but instead turns an amused and slightly dubious expression on him. 'Been doing your research, I see.'
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Well. For the most part. He nicks the cigarette back and turns his face away as he takes a drag. "Not to say there's not wisdom in not walking in blind when you can help it." There's a hole in the toe of his boot. Jack wiggles a orange toe through it. "Fair's far, after all. You got my record so I got yours."
Which really wasn't much of a record at all, apart from long names of various educational institutions and a poorly-focused photgraph of fifteen men kitted out in robes and wigs in front of presitgious looking building. Jack's record is much more colourful, on the other hand, especially if James got a hold of his sheet from Louisiana.
"Couldn't find anything, though, about a personal drinking habits. Tea or coffee? Or neither. Could like water, I suppose, since you're not one of them."
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His answer following the comment about arsonists that James would frankly rather not look into, though- that's got a certain logic to it. Still doesn't stop it being strange that Jack went and Googled his prosecutor. It's not as if there'd be anything much to Google, after all; he's still just a student, no matter what a good one he might be. James can't help but wonder if this was before or after the trial, when Jack had apparently decided that trying to pick him up would be a good idea.
Still thinks it is a good idea, judging from the line that comes next. James offers a small, slightly rueful smile as he nabs the cigarette from Jack's fingers. 'Tea,' he says, 'but I hardly think it's really appropriate for me to see a defendant outside of a purely... professional context.'
And maybe, yeah, professional isn't exactly the right word, but the point still stands. For him to go out on a date with the man he just gave three days in jail and fined 3,000 pounds would, besides being highly inappropriate, be frankly rather ridiculous.
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Thankfully, Jack has studied well in the art of persistence. "Not a defendant anymore, am I? Just a bloke on the street. Steps. Lawn type area... thing." He looks about their surroundings curiously, trying to find a better way to phrase that. There might not be one. So he looks back at James instead. "And I didn't ask you to anything yet. No sense in being presumptuous. I might just be inquiring about drinking habits for the sake of it. For a poll. Government thing."
Because technically, that's true. Even though Jack doesn't put a lot of stock in technicalities. He can't seem to help it, though, teasing. The thing he finds interesting about James is the way he can keep up with Jack's particular brand of logic. He didn't let Jack get away with it in the courts, even when Jack made a few good points -- if you squinted and turned your head sideways. They were still... good. Decent. Solidily shaky points.
He takes the cigarette straight from James' lips and smiles at him innocently.
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But as it is, he's not. And enticing thought the prospect is, it really wouldn't be cricket. Besides, he hasn't a clue who Jack is, other than his criminal record, and all things considered, that probably isn't the best of places to start.
'You've got that court paper; as far as I'm concerned, you're a defendant. Sorry, but that's the way it is.'
He can't resist a dig at Jack's comment, though, and his mouth pulls itself over to one side of his face. 'And if you were to say you were conducting a government poll thing, I'd have to ask what sort of government would employ you.'
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"The French," Jack says without pause and as sincerely as possible. Which is fairly bloody convincing.
James L., it turns out, has a nice, if a bit sloppy, smile. Jack would dearly love to see it again, perhaps offer it closer inspection, perhaps with his mouth next time. Defendant status and professional... whatever aside, Jack is not ready to give up on this game. James gives as good as Jack, and that's a rare quality to find in a man. The only other one that keeps up on Jack's wavelength is Hector in Accounting. And he's just mean about it.
Jack takes the last drag off the cigarette before ripping off the cherry and pocketing the filter in his jeans. He pulls out his crumpled piece of phone number. "I could lose the paper. It could just fly away with the wind." He flutters the paper in a mimicry but doesn't actually let go. It'll be his head if he loses it, or more likely his future date with James. Drinks are hard to be had sitting in a cell for thirty days.
A change in tactics is needed. Jack edges closer into James' personal space, going so far as to lean close to his ear to better whisper to him. "What if I make you a deal. We go have drinks, little stronger than just tea -- " and Jack gives a little eye roll at that " -- and I'll... go break a window in a house, or something. That way I get my time and you can give your sound and comforting legal advice. Square enough?"
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He tenses slightly when Jack leans into his personal space, breathing against his ear, leaning back just a little, so that the two of them form an awkward curve. But once again, the words make him laugh. It's rare, really; not that James is a sour person, not by any means, it just takes quite a bit to make him laugh aloud. Generally, he restricts himself to eyebrow raises and dry chuckles.
It's clear what his response is intended to be, but somehow, he doesn't really mind giving it. For all he's known him for only a few hours- and most of those spent in a courtroom- Jack seems to be something different. And James never could resist a puzzle. He places a few delicate fingers on Jack's chest, shoving him lightly out of James's personal bubble.
'What if I make you a deal? We go have drinks- just this once- and you don't break any windows at all. Makes things easier for the both of us.'
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"Even better. Hard to convince you for more drinks if I'm serving two sentences."
He makes a show of inspecting James' nails, nice and neat and clean for a student, and brushes his thumb over the knuckles once or twice, just for the sake of it before James takes his hand away. Jack flounders a moment for what to do with his free limbs before hooking his fingers through a belt loop.
"There's a restaurant down the High Street. Play live music Thursday nights. Eight o'clock all right by you?"
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James knows the place Jack's referring to- or at least, he's fairly sure he does- and this time, he fishes for a pen in his bag. When he does come up with one, he scribbles the relevant information on his hand, muttering aloud as he does so.
'High Street... eight... o'clock.' He looks up, giving Jack a polite smile. 'Sounds most agreeable. I look forward to it.'
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"Must. Wear. Something. Flash." He underlines flash twice and then turns James' hand over for a quick kiss to the inside of his palm, folding his fingers over as if it's a physical gift for James to keep.
He returns the smile with one of his own, less polite and more excited. Or leering. One of the two. And then does a little mock bow. "Pleasure to meet you, James Norrington. Tonight, you're going to need to tell me what the L stands for."
Jack gives a little wave and then fishes another cigarette out of his pocket. He'll find someone on the street to ask for a light and maybe beg off a bite to eat before he gets himself dressed for tonight.
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'Flash,' he affirms, smirking around the syllables, 'I'll keep that in mind.'
The little kiss to the tender skin of his palm, and the leer that follows might have had him blushing if he was the sort of man who blushed. Fortunately for him, however, he isn't even remotely close to that sort of man, so he merely chuckles, curling his fingers away from Jack's.
'We'll see,' he says, inclining his head towards Jack in his own approximation of a bow as the other man sets off down the street. James shakes his head bemusedly, gazing after him for a moment or two. He hadn't noticed it before, not when he was walking besides James, but his gait is a curious swaying, swaggering thing, as if his entire, dubious balance centres around his hips. It draws a certain amount of attention to his arse, at least from this angle, and James has to admit, from what he can see of it, it is an eminently fine arse. He chuckles to himself, turning around to head back to his own flat, the faintest hint of a swagger in his own step.
He arrives at the restaurant in question at eight o'clock sharp. It's a nice place, classy but casual, lots of black around small, round tables of polished wood. Up on a low stage there's a man and a woman performing; the man singing harmonies to the woman's breathy alto, the woman with an acoustic guitar slung 'round her shoulders. Good music, if fairly predictable for this sort of venue. James, for his part, is dressed in what he hopes qualifies as flash; a black button up shirt tucked into nice jeans all fairly plain, but the sportcoat he's got on over the shirt is burgundy velvet. Slightly ostentatious, but beautifully cut.
He can't find Jack anywhere in the place, so he takes a seat in a corner booth, the cushions black leather, and orders himself a glass of red wine. Hopefully, he won't have long to wait.
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The clock on Gibbs' wall, which is the face Felix the Cat, a present Jack bestowed on him one Christmas after finding it in a pawn shop in the south of France for a good price, catches the time and Jack off guard when he looks at it next. Felix's whiskers say quarter past seven, which can't be right, because Jack was meant to leave at least by six-thirty.
"Bugger," he says and sets down the dish of applesauce. (Gibbs had told him it was from Hector in Accounting and Jack passed the double pint mark before he was convinced that it wasn't poisoned.) "Bugger, bugger, bugger. I'm going to be late."
Gibbs had sprawled out on his sofa a while ago and seemed half-asleep, unable to pay attention. Or drunk. Or both. Jack side-steps him, pocketing his keys to lock up, and hops the tube to Camden. By the time he budges open the door to his flat and leaps over furniture in search of clean clothes, the sun has set.
Bugger. This is not good. James seems not the type willing to wait long, punctual probably, and chances are annoyed when Jack went out of his way to ask him out. Jack finds a white shirt and an embroidered tweed waistcoat and fits it all together with a fedora. He adds a bit of eye-liner for evening and then hurdles the sofa and what he thinks at one point was a television back in 1956 to bolt out the door.
James is visible through the window, the back of his head looking rather nice and not angry, but Jack doesn't trust the front to be the same. Full smile in place, he tucks into the restaurant and slips past the maitre d to join James in the corner.
"Takes longer than you think to get a cab back from Northaw," Jack lies smoothly. He eyes James' blazer. "And good to see you took 'flash' to heart."
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