RL with notjackkerouac

[fortiter_in_re]

Jack Sparrow, James decides at some point over the next month, is clearly trying to drive him mad.  Completely bloody insane.  After their date that month ago- because yes, it was a date, no point denying that- James had expected, maybe hoped for a call in a week or so, after Jack had served his three days in prison.  But nothing.  And then nothing

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[notjackkerouac]

Bo-ring. Jack's brain feels like it's cracking in two at the way James condenses that entire afternoon into two sentences. He looks at Theo for help but Theo seems not at all concerned about it, taking it in a fully-fleshed anecdote and moving along. It's so distressing that he can't even laugh at the way Theo mimics Sel-whatever's overly-protruding nose.

Jack turns round on James, frowning (maybe pouting a little) at his lack of description. "You need to work on your conversational skills, mate."

Far more happened than just Jack taking matters into his own hands, though he did, and dumping what's-his-face to sit quiet on one of the chairs for the majority of the trial. James didn't even mention Jack climbing to his feet on one of the table tops and dramatically reciting some speech about courage and fortitude in the face of certain death. That might be because that didn't happen -- but the point is it could have happened. And James utterly missed the mark.

"You left out all the good parts," Jack -- it's not really a whine, per

[notjackkerouac]

At the sign of colour on James' cheeks, the way his eyes immediately fall to the table top upon Jack mentioning the absinthe, Jack nearly wants to laugh. He grins broadly instead. Apparently it is a very good story to make someone like James flush, and Jack dearly wants to hear the full, uncut version. In all the tales he managed to connive from Theo or Elizabeth or any other of James' many acquaintances, the worst he was told was James either being not quite polite as he should or refusing to do something daft with the rest of his friends. None of the gaffs involved should earn a touch of mortification, except for the absinthe night. It's unfair that it is the one story he never was told in full form

[fortiter_in_re]

In Jack's voice, James can hear the return of some of that lewd wickedness from the first time they met. His lips twist, and he lifts his glass to his lips, draining the last dregs of foam from the bottom. As good as James is at having a sharp answer for everything, he finds himself disconcertingly at a blank in this instance. He could easily say that he hadn't given the matter a second thought, that a kiss is hardly something to dwell on, but he knows Jack would call that for a lie in an instant. What reason, after all, would he have for being so chilly with Jack upon running into him here if he didn't care

[notjackkerouac]

As Will introduces himself to James, stiff as usual so that Jack must resist the urge to pick him up and just shake him until he loses whatever lead's in his veins and smiles (like he did when Will was seven or eight and Jack shared a room with him in the Turner abode), Elizabeth turns her sights onto Jack. She slinks next to him, sliding an arm around his shoulders and pinching the cigarette from Jack's mouth. Jack pinches it right back and slips his arm around her waist

[fortiter_in_re]

Will's eyes slide over to Jack and Elizabeth at nearly exactly the same time James's do, and when he turns back to look at him, he sees precisely the same consternation in his face as James feels. Well. Perhaps the boy has something to be said for him after all

[notjackkerouac]

Jack has to twist away from Elizabeth to place the order, smacking his palm on the bar a few times to draw the bartender's attention. He passes a crumpled note over for Will's cider, and then orders another two pints for James and himself, placing it on a tab under Lysander. He purposefully does not order Elizabeth's martini. He quiets her when she pouts by lifting Will's cider and placing it in her hands. "Share Will's," he whispers, voice pitched to stay just between them, and Elizabeth seems pleased to accept that as an alternative. She takes a large sip, really more like a gulp, immediately

[fortiter_in_re]

It's a strange image, Jack as some kind of elder brother or uncle to Will, the lad standing there looking so stiff and awkward and looking at Jack with something that tries very hard to be icy disdain. There's clearly a past there, some warmth that they used to have which Jack still seems to hold on to. It's the sort of thing people don't talk about in public, because of the awkward silences such things inevitably engender

[notjackkerouac]

Elizabeth is already dancing mostly by the time they land on the floor. It's a cramped space and they're the only two out here, which leads Jack to believe that dancing isn't really what this spot was designed for. But the song, albeit not Jack's personal taste, is a seductive one, begging for movement, and he draws around to face Elizabeth and get a decent side view of the bar.

He doesn't move like she does, slithering, curved movement with all the freedom of someone too young to ever believe that they might look silly. Jack's hardly worried about that, despite having little usual interest in dancing, and steps close to her to fit against the way she moves. She places her palms flat to Jack's breast, one over his heart and one over the tattoo he has of the Pearl, but Jack doesn't touch her apart from the silky brush of her satin shirt against his forearms. Both Will and James are watching them

[fortiter_in_re]

The song changes, and so does the dance. Something flares in James's gut, some heat that wavers in between pleasure and jealousy and a desire to march up to the pair of them and pull them apart so there's at least some airspace between them. Jack's eyes are wicked as he stares over Elizabeth's shoulder, gaze unabashedly on James. Could be you, this, they seem to be saying, as one hand creeps over Elizabeth's lower back, fingers brushing obscenely over the silk of her top. Perhaps James hadn't expected it, given his swaggering, swaying gait that makes him look like he's fighting a constant battle with gravity, but Jack knows how to move. He's lithe, and far more sensual than James really appreciates at the moment.

James humphs into his drink. Regardless of anything else, later tonight, Jack is getting a strict talking to about how he treats Elizabeth

[notjackkerouac]

Elizabeth smells like floral, spicy something, soap or perfume or Jack doesn't know. She smells like a girl, like his favourite kind of girl: warm and fresh with the hint of something dangerous underneath it all, tempting him. Jack spreads his fingers along her spine, where it arches to curve into her arse. Her fingers feel like bloody heaven in his hair, tugging light at the strands and scraping her fingernails over his scalp. That combined with the way he manages to lock James' eyes and Jack can only contain his groan to a low growl deep in his throat. Next to his ear, Elizabeth laughs softly

[fortiter_in_re]

The dancing swiftly progresses from sensual to downright pornographic, and James joins Will in glaring out at the dance floor. Elizabeth is seventeen bloody years old, for Christ's sake; she's still practically a kid; she should not be able to dance like that with a man (or a woman, James supposes). And as for Jack; the bastard's playing right into her, pressing up against her, leaning so close they might well be kissing. Jack is- well, he's not his, that is ridiculous, presumptuous, and untrue, but whatever he is, he's certainly not Elizabeth's

[notjackkerouac]

As James brushes past to Jack to follow Elizabeth, Jack turns to stare at their backs. His look has trouble deciding whether it wants to be an indignant pout or miserable scowl. He settles for disgruntled and lowers himself into a chair, all the better to watch James. His jeans pull tight over his groin and Jack must shift slightly, leaning forward on his elbows, so as to not drive himself any more up the wall than he already is

[fortiter_in_re]

The rest of the dance passes without much in the way of talk, and when it's finished, James lifts Elizabeth's hand to his lips, perfectly gentlemanly, and only a touch mocking. She laughs at him and calls him old fashioned, and James offers her a wry little smile.

'Probably right. Now go on.' He ushers them both back towards the bar where Jack and Will are sitting with a faint brush of fingers against the small of her back. 'I think,' he murmurs under his breath as they near, 'your William could do with an assurance that you're not going to be running off to shag Jack Sparrow after he leaves.'

'No, that'll be your job, won't it?' She shoots back, calm as if she was commenting on the weather, and James shakes his head.

'That, Miss Swann, is none of your business.'

Elizabeth turns a dazzling grin on him, an expression that says she knows he's going to be shagging Jack Sparrow once the night is up (patently not true), and what's more, she likes the visual. James sighs a little, but it's indulgent. She's utterly incorrigible

[notjackkerouac]

Jack is not chickening out. He is simply -- taking his time, making sure not to rush into anything, pondering. The early bird gets the worm but the second mouse gets the cheese, et cetera et cetera and so forth. The niggling little voice in Jack's head can take its pick of excuses for why he's not interrupting James and Elizabeth's dance to drag James off to the loo for a shag. Or really a discussion. And then a shag. Hopefully

[fortiter_in_re]

The sudden lack of distance between him and Jack is jarring, and entirely not suited to maintaining a proper disapproving elder brother attitude. Still, James has always been a man of strong will, and he steels that will now, forcing himself to be utterly unimpressed with the inviting little slur to Jack's voice, the way he's looking at James as though he wants nothing more than to pin him against a wall and lick him all over.

Well. Mostly unimpressed.

He doesn't resist perhaps as much as he feels he ought to when Jack drags him through the crowd of people and out a back door. The relative quiet of the outside is better for talking anyway, and it's talking that James wants now. He doesn't need an explanation for what Jack and Elizabeth were doing- Elizabeth had all but told him, after all- he just needs silence enough to enforce on Jack that he is never going to do that again, unless he wants to come out slightly worse for the wear.

'She's seventeen, Jack.' He repeats his words from earlier, picking up right from where he left

[notjackkerouac]

"Thirty-four," Jack supplies becase he's not really listening. The bead of sweat is killing him, physically causing him pain from not being able to deal with it in the manner Jack most sees fit. Or manners. Jack can think up a few alternative measures, though most still involve his mouth in some form or another.

That bit about controlling himself crashes hard into his line of thought, though, completely derailing it. Jack gives a very put-upon sounding groan (it is definitely not a whimper) and balls his hands into fists to refrain from touching James.

James doesn't get it, which is the issue, or does get it but is purposefully ignoring it in favour of discussing what's-her-face. Jack really needs it paid attention to before it sucks all the blood from his brain and he dies from cerebral hemmoraging.

"In regards to Miss Elizabeth or to you?" he asks pointedly, the smile he attaches to it coming out hungry rather than cheeky. "Because I make no promises about you."

And he proves it by swiping his thumb -- finally -- along James