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

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[notjackkerouac]

The look James is giving him is not one of agreement and Jack waits for an explanation, a debate, some kind of challenge. It's a little disappointing when all James gives him is a shrug.

The reason Jack likes him -- and it's expanding with every smile, every parry to his thrust so to speak -- but the reason he waited that long, painful twenty minutes in the warmth of the library was because James did what very few manage to do and that was to give Jack an excuse to think. Think about what he does, why he does it, argue for it. So much of the time, Jack spends his time doing without stopping and it's something new to take a moment to figure it all out, learn something else.

Jack frowns a bit, narrowing his eyes as he studies James, trying to get a read on the thoughts behind his words. "Would think you'd want people to get themselves in debted to yesterday. You'd be out of a job otherwise if everyone took stock of consequences."

There's a little bit of a challenge in the words but it remains true. If no one broke the law, there'd be no one needed to uphold the law. Which is not the same as what Jack means exactly but he's more interested in what James thinks of it. Why he thinks that way.

"After all," Jack adds, finishing the last of his drink, "consequences are just another way of saying what a man can live with. What a man thinks is worth it. Different for everyone, that."

[fortiter_in_re]

'I suppose that's true,' James says with a little laugh, because it is. As much as the judiciary or the constabulary might talk about eliminating crime, to suppose that that's really what they want in the long term is simply naive. Jack's words have more behind them than just that, though, and James finds himself curious about what exactly that is. If Jack himself is indebted to yesterday, as he put it, if he cares that he is.

Because it's not crime they're talking about, after all, it's just living. James absently watches Jack's Adam's apple bob as he swallows, catching the swift-flicker of his tongue as he licks the taste of vodka from his lips.

'So I suppose,' he murmurs, chasing the edge of a thought, 'the question would then be not how deep the woods are, but what one might be chasing into them.'

He pauses, taking a small sip of his own drink, and mulling his thoughts about. 'Though I think... there are ways to circumvent consequence, if one looks at something the right way. Patience and thought, instead of just flinging oneself headlong into things.'

[notjackkerouac]

That is the question, isn't it? Jack outright grins at that comment, a little wicked and thrilled. Something in his stomach lurches like it does on take off, the sense of a new adventure dawning on the horizon and nothing seperating it from Jack.

"Everything changes with looking at it the right way. It just depends on what the right way is. There's something to be said for crash landings."

Because that is, after all, why Jack is sitting here now, discussing this with James. If he had thought to check the fusile lodge. If he had thought to stop in Paris instead of risking the rest of the way to London. It could be a Parisian sitting across from him now, correcting Jack's French. More probable, it would be no one, and Jack in some cell, muttering "d'eau" to himself. This reality is far better.

"Some things aren't meant to be circumvented. Better to just let interesting times come. The Chinese call it a curse but the only alternative then is not going into the woods at all."

[fortiter_in_re]

James has never much gone for crash landings himself. He prefers to know how things are going to end, and if he can't figure it out, making sure they go that way himself. What's more, he's got damn good at it. With Jack, though... he'd had no chance knowing how this was going to happen thus far, and even less of knowing how it's going to end. If it's going to end.

He's not entirely sure how he feels about that, and that in itself is rather... exciting.

But even that thought feels like something a blushing teenager might write in her diary, and his lips twist a little as he signals the waiter to order himself another drink.

'You really think so?' He asks, as he turns back to Jack. 'The fairies in those woods aren't always so benevolent, and even when they are, somebody ends up looking an ass.' James meets his eyes, his gaze shrewd, as if he could divine some answer there merely by looking. 'I like to try and be a little prepared, at least.'

[notjackkerouac]

Somehow the way James is looking at him hits Jack square in the solar plexus, traps his breath there so that he needs to struggle for a moment to remember how to convert air into oxygen. That particular feeling in his stomach grows, adrenelin and the liquor combining to send a warm buzz through his veins. He's not quite sure what James is proposing but he likes it well enough not to back out now.

"I find," he starts before the waiter leans over the table to collect the drinks and replace them with fresh ones. Jack curls his fingers around the glass, spinning it slowly on the table top, watching for a moment as the ice sinks to the bottom before glancing up to find James' eyes again. "Not much worth doing comes with warning signs. Sometimes you just need to get a little lost in order to find something better."

[fortiter_in_re]

Jack's dark eyes seem ridiculously warm, focussed on James like that, and he licks his lips before he can think about what his tongue's doing, taking a quick sip of his drink to justify the internal glow that seems to have blossomed in his gut. He almost wants to laugh, though, at the way they're speaking in riddles and metaphors, and lifts an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat. He shifts slightly on the bench as he does so, nudging against Jack's boot.

'So tell me,' he asks dryly, 'are you the something better in this metaphor? Bit presumptuous of you, really, to imagine that I'd want to go chasing into any sort of woods after you, whether they're metaphorical or not.'

He's smiling as he says it though, because he thinks that maybe he wouldn't mind chasing Jack into the woods. Certainly it would be an interesting experience, if nothing else. Nothing about Jack thus far has been boring or predictable, and James enjoys the way he matches him turn for turn, keeping up like it's a swordfight, blow for blow, parry and thrust, each of them dancing around the other. And even besides that, judging by the heat of those eyes as they regard him, metaphorically chasing Jack into the metaphorical woods would be a rather enjoyable experience as well.

[notjackkerouac]

Jack chuckles at the implication. Maybe he's suggesting that and maybe he's not. He can't even answer that for himself. James can decide for himself if Jack is something better for him. Jack knows next to nothing about him, except that James is attractive, relatively intelligent, and some of the most fun Jack's had when either not stuffed in a cockpit or naked. Possibly even surpasses both at once.

Images are tied to that thought, glimpses of taking James home, or really to the Pearl, seeing as she brought them together and Jack's flat would be more difficult to squeeze another being into, and stripping away Elton's blazer and slowly pushing open the collar of that shirt to see and touch the skin beneath.

He wonders idly, as he pretends to seriously consider James' question, finger poking his chin, if he actually could get James drunk enough to agree to sex while flying. Very few people seem to trust Jack's skill to multitask both of those acts at once. He's never been particularly brave enough to question which skill set they doubt. James seems the type to protest both at this moment, though.

And Jack rather likes the idea of being chased. He's fairly sure James would, with the right sort of motivation. No one asks that question expecting to be told no. So that's just what Jack does, in a way. Retracting his foot, Jack crosses his leg beneath the table, making a new space between them even as he leans forward on his elbows, hovering closer to James. He draws small patterns in the watermarks on the table with a fingertip, smiling softly as he holds James' gaze.

"Can't say, can I? That's the thing about chasing something: you don't always get it, even if you want it. So I guess you'll just need to catch me first to find out."

[fortiter_in_re]

The foot nestled up against his hip slides off the seat, tucking itself neatly away on Jack's side of the table, and James could very well laugh. Sets himself out there, pulls himself away, like all this is some sort of game that Jack just gets a lark out of playing. So James doesn't lean in to mirror Jack's gesture, but instead idly holds his glass to his lips, inhaling the sharp, sweet scent of the alcohol, watching Jack over the rim. He smiles a little, though it's wry and slightly crooked in the face of Jack's soft one.

'I was rather under the impression that I already had caught you,' he comments. 'Certainly, the three days you'll be spending in a cell would suggest as much.'

James sets down his glass, and this time, he does lean a little closer, one eyebrow lifting wickedly, fingers skating smooth across the polished tabletop. 'And need I remind you that you were the one who chased me down and insisted on a drink, lest you break some poor innocent's window.'

[notjackkerouac]

"Only place you want me, then? Banged up behind bars?" Jack immediately counters. Because if that's all it is -- and he doubts that, knows it to be more -- they have no reason to continue anything. Jack might as well serve out his time due and leave the rest be. But the fact James is here, met him for drinks despite all those useless protestations, proves what a lie that is. "Besides. Hasn't happened yet. Thought we already mentioned the dangers of being presumptuous."

He leans back when James leans closer, swaying away playfully, skating his fingers to the far side of the table to lean a shoulder against the wall.

And James does have a point. Jack did instigate it, took the first step, but James responded and that's what really matters. He takes the hat from his head, spins it on a finger like he isn't listening at all, even though he is. Lolling his head to his shoulder, Jack answers lazily, slurring a bit despite the fact that he hasn't had quite enough alcohol to reach that point.

"All that proves is that I caught you. Never said anything about me turning myself over under your charms."

[fortiter_in_re]

That doesn't even come close to deserving an answer, so it doesn't get one. Though James had meant his protestations at the time, he rather thinks it's become clear to the both of them by this point that Jack's far too interesting simply to ignore after his stint in jail. He thinks (hopes? surely not) it's fairly safe to assume Jack's come to a similar conclusion about him.

He makes note of the way Jack leans back when James leans in, keeping up that play of give and take that seems to have developed between them. He doesn't entirely understand it, or Jack's motivation for it, and that too drives him forward. James has never been good with not understanding.

'Caught me?' He echoes, good naturedly incredulous. 'I hardly think so.' The thought of Jack... turning himself over under James's charms does have a certain appeal, though he doesn't say as much. Wouldn't do, after all, and certainly not if he's to prove the point that he hasn't been caught yet. If he's ever going to be. Once again, presumptuousness.

So he takes another sip of his drink, absently noting that he may be somewhere on the path towards tipsy. 'Just a drink, Jack,' he says. 'I'm hardly in chains yet.'

[notjackkerouac]

It is just drinks, and were it anything more -- is it anything more? -- Jack would be the first to correct that assumption. It's pointless to waste time wandering things like that, making plans based on things not yet come to pass, deciding the next place to go before you've even reached the first. There's place else to live but the present, and that's drinks right now, and strange, looping conversation.

Jack likes that. Doesn't need to think of anything more just yet. "Only wanted you for drinks when I asked," he says, then makes the gesture to check the watch he doesn't wear. "But the night's still young yet, isn't it? No telling where we'll end up."

He smiles as he says it, offering up another invitation maybe, if James wants to take it as such. To take Jack home with him, let Jack take him. Or something else altogether. Because even if you can't live in the future, there's no harm in glancing in its direction every once in a while. Two drinks in and it already feels like too long sitting still, playing at something without really being part of it. Jack tips the glass back, downing half his glass in one large gulp before turning back to James, fingers dabbing at his lips.

"It's like you said. Doesn't matter how deep or dark the woods are so much as what you're willing to chase into them. Maybe I just wanted to see if you'd lose the right road with me."

[fortiter_in_re]

When I asked. Which would suggest that it's something more, something else that Jack wants now. Or perhaps something else he's willing to entertain the possibility of. That's interesting, but not particularly unexpected, and James matches Jack's smile with one of his own- small and close-lipped, but warm, amused.

There's an invitation there, but James isn't going to take it. Not yet, at least. From the looks of things he could probably get Jack into his bed tonight, if he wanted to. Or up against the wall out back of the restaurant, if that's what took his fancy. But James is patient; he knows how to let things take their time, growing richer and sweeter as time passes. And besides, he's enjoying the strange, twisting not-conversation they're having. He's never quite sure where it's going, and that's an unusual thing.

Jack's words surprise him pleasantly, and he lifts an eyebrow, the words coming up out of the back of his brain where they stored themselves years ago when first he read them. They come easily, tripping over his lips with the lazy ease of long memorisation. 'Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita/ mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,/ ché la diritta via era smarrita.'

James smothers his small smile against the rim of his glass, ice cubes clicking against his teeth. 'Dante?' He asks, even though it isn't really a question. 'Seems a bit grim for... this particular setting.'

[notjackkerouac]

The Italian comes as a surprise, but not an unpleasant one once Jack bends his ear around it again. Recognises it as the actual verse of his thought. It's only from distant memory of recitation, struggling over the popping vowels many years ago with a warn book propped across his knees and an Italian-English dictory flipped open on the seat next to him, that he can place it.

It shocks a line of one of the verse of the original Italian Jack ever bothered to memorize out of his mouth before he can think about it. "Io non so chi tu se ne per che modo venuto se qua giu; ma fiorentino mi sembri veramente quand io to odo."

The words don't quite fit in his mouth elongating and stretching along his tongue as he does the thing from muscle memory rather than concentrates on the individual consonants themselves. It's something smug he feels when he pulls it off, pleased at the reaction it gets.

He rubs his fingers into the grain of the table when James calls him on it. It's not embarrassment, whatever it is that makes Jack tuck his chin to his chest, eyes sliding off to the side. It's more that James caught the implication, found out the lines that Jack mistakenly managed to keep in his head despite trying to rid himself of it. He squeezes an eye shut.

"If you're to be bringing up woods..." he excuses and then shrugs a shoulder. "And all depends how you look at it, really. In the end, they find the stars. Fair finale, I would wager."

[fortiter_in_re]

The words on Jack's tongue don't sound nearly as smooth as they did on James's, stretched and hesitating as if he's not sure quite what he's saying. A distinct contrast to James's smooth, university student tones. Still though, James enjoys the sound, the strange juxtaposition of Jack's rough accent on the lilting Italian, the elongated vowels and sharp consonants.

'Fiorentino? Mi?' It's been ages since he spoke any Italian at all, but simple, one-word sentences he reckons he can manage. He chuckles a little. 'Difficilmente.' James, after all, is no Dante, not in any respect.

Jack's reaction, though, that James should recognise what he's referencing, is curious. He seems almost bashful, his eye contact slipping away with a duck of his head. Like most everything else about Jack seems to, that only serves to make James more curious. He's seen Jack's record, after all, knows that he spent the first fourteen years of his life an American citizen, has a criminal record dating to his early teens- and yet he can quote Dante in the original Italian? It doesn't seem to fit.

'They do indeed,' he agrees, finding a drip down the side of his glass and wiping it off, sucking the flavour from his fingertip. 'And would you say that makes it worth it?'

He is actually curious to know Jack's answer.

[notjackkerouac]

That Italian Jack can't place, not with the same inbred ease of connecting thought with though, book to book, the cockpit of the plane so warm and nothing else to do but teach himself how to read a story not meant for him. But he can piece the meaning together, the words close enough to English, to French, to Spanish to understand the meaning if not the direct translation.

It was only a joke, after all.

The sight of James sucking his finger draws Jack away from the strange, small, uncomfortable place centered in his chest, and he bites at his lip, remembering the way he kissed James' palm outside the library. Appreciating the way his fingers are long, the nails neat, all the curious crisscrossing lines in his skin that Jack would love to trace with a fingernail. New paths to wander.

His thoughts are determined to stay there, even when James' question fights to pull them away. "For a decent into hell?"

To answer that takes some amount of consideration and Jack rolls his thoughts around in his head, picking them up and looking at them objectively, trying to find which order they belong in.

When he finallyt does speak, the words come slowly, said in time as Jack lays the out in front of him for studying. "Dante had heavenly protection, is the thing, and Virgil to guide him safely along. To learn the stories of those souls suffering. To suffer with them for a while. It's impossible to avoid that. Sometimes it means more to do that bit than to just look up at the sky one night."

He's not sure if he really wants to believe that but it's the right answer for him, either way. He gives a tight nod, agreeing with himself, and glances back at James.

[fortiter_in_re]

James nurses his drink as Jack mulls over his question. It's not an uncomfortable silence, per se, but it drags on for a long time, long enough for James to finish his drink, and to be rather grateful when Jack finally does speak. He'll keep this in mind for future; classical literature and philosophy do not make great discussion for first dates. Or casual drinks. Whichever one this is.

His words are true, though, James thinks, but he didn't exactly expect them of him, not with his talk of taking any happiness you could when it presented itself to you. That's patience- suffering and learning- and that's usually the valuable thing in any exercise. James smiles. Well well, Jack just continues to surprise him, doesn't he?

'How wise of you,' he murmurs, chasing the ice cubes in circles 'round the bottom of his glass with a finger. The tip of his finger is going a bit numb, but he doesn't particularly care.

Another topic of conversation, he feels, is rather in order, but he's not entirely sure what. They seem to have come to a rather awkward end to this one. He tilts his head at Jack, still stirring the melting ice in his glass. 'Any more surprises for me,' he settles on, rather lamely, giving Jack a crooked grin. 'Besides an apparently encyclopaedic knowledge of Dante.'