And teach me how to name the bigger light (for eliot)

[jackrackham]

It's been days since they've arrived in this place and Jack is beginning to give up hope that whatever brought them here will deliver them back from whence they'd been taken. Up til now, he hadn't wanted to venture far from Anne in case of just that possibility, but he can't stay locked away in their strange little rooms forever.

He has his own assigned lodging to investigate, so once he's out of the street, he heads in that direction. He takes his time. It's still fucking cold out, but it's hard not to take time when there are so many things that are entirely incomprehensible to him. The occasional honk from a car passing by never fails to make him flinch, and the strange lights and sounds are a constant unnerving baseline. It doesn't help that further, he doesn't fit in at all. His coat and hat and weapons make people look in his direction, but nobody stops and asks if he's new, if he's one of these visitors from another world, if he needs any assistance. He can see in their faces people willing away his strangeness, and he hates it.

At the first intersection, he pauses and takes note of the other pedestrians, how they push the button and wait to cross the street. He pauses with them and turns to his left, squinting at a strange humming coming from a large metal cabinet standing on the pavement. The crowd moves, and he moves with it.

At the next intersection, the crowd moves on, and he stays, staring at the humming metal box. Another one, here. He lifts a hand up and cautiously touches the surface. Smooth, cool, no movement that he can detect. He drops his hand, and examines the small lock holding together the doors. It's nothing major, more of a deterrent than an actual safety measure. No doubt easily broken.

He looks to his left and right. There are people on this side of the street, but none that are actively watching him at the moment. He slides his dagger out of his belt, scabbard and all, and turns it around in his hand. It takes three strikes with the pommel before the little lock falls open. He pulls it off and goes to open the cabinet. A second glance down the street and he spots someone crossing to the other side to avoid him. Just as well, he doesn't want to talk to them, either.

He's expecting that inside there will be a clue, a hint to understanding something about this place. What he finds is a jumble of rubber wires and panels and instrumentation that he doesn't understand and couldn't begin to if he tried. It looks horrific, like if the bones and sinews of this place had fused into a strange humming node.

He tucks his dagger back into his belt and raises a hand to rub at the side of his face. "...Huh."

Comments

[jackrackham]

Jack looks warily back at Eliot as they walk, afraid that he's going to be told about a terrible defeat, or even the method of his own death. He considers for a moment or two whether he should stop him before he continues on, but if there's one thing that is known about him he definitely wants to know what that one thing is.

You're probably not going to like it, Eliot says, and Jack holds his breath.

When Eliot finally says what he'd been hedging around, he laughs in relief and a wide grin slowly blooms across his face. "My flag?"

This is so much better than anything that he'd been expecting. Maybe Eliot doesn't know any particulars about his life, but he's more familiar with his flag than anyone else's. "Not Henry Avery. Or Edward Teach."

Jack's hand drops down to his side, and a paper crinkles on the inside pocket of his jacket. He thinks about pulling it out and presenting it to Eliot, showing him the charcoal sketch of the skull and crossed sabers and asking him is this it, is this the image that lasts for three hundred years and becomes a lasting symbol of everything that I have ever aspired to? He holds his hand there for a moment as if he's holding a bleeding wound, then lets it drop.

He dips his head to hide his smile, and his hand wanders of its own free will back to his side. "That's not so bad."

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot's not sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. Jack actually laughs, and after a startled moment Eliot gathers he's pleased with the news. it's such a relief honestly that he hasn't ruined it; Eliot can't help smiling too.

"Yeah," he affirms, and his instinct is to blurt out something like 'who's Henry Avery' but he doesn't. Partly because he's watching Jack look fondly into the middle distance, but mostly because they've arrived.

"Ah, here we are." He gets the door for Jack and follows into the coffee shop, wondering how the distinctly thrift-store-bohemian decor will seem to someone unfamiliar with the modern cafe concept. He's not certain he wants to completely overwhelm Jack with the whole pageantry of drinks that exist in the espresso renaissance, and he thinks over his options. "Go ahead and grab a table," he says, indicating the slew of mismatched furniture, "I'll just put an order in."

Eliot makes his way to the counter, frowning in indecision. "French press for two," he says finally, "and a couple for the board? and...hm, what pastries are left?" They might as well have something to eat, he thinks. Thankfully he's stopped here often enough and tipped generously enough that Dharma gives him a discount on the few pastries that are left in the case, and he gives her a wink and a crooked smile.

He's going to be late for work, he realizes, and almost laughs to himself at how it had utterly slipped his mind with the way the day's turned out. As he wanders back with a small selection of baked goods to where Jack's waiting, he shoots off a quick text to Martin explaining his absence.

"So I don't know what you like," he says, setting the plate down between them, "but they had a couple croissants and a scone and this apple tart that I've had before, it's amazing."

[jackrackham]

This is definitely not where he'd expected to find himself this morning, but he's glad for the intervention. His new rooms can wait for him to look them over. He suspects that they'll be more or less like the ones assigned to Anne, anyway. This place is a little strange to him. It seems like they cobbled together furniture where they could find it, but they also have a full patisserie display and all the accouterments of a coffee house. He's not sure if it's a style choice, or if they just cut corners where they could.

He finds a seat where he has a decent view of the place, loosens his borrowed scarf, and watches Eliot order. He's still thinking about what Eliot said, how his flag is a symbol for piracy as a whole. That's...really something. It almost feels like too much responsibility, as if it's not only his flag but his exploits that are standing in for everyone that ever sailed under the black.

Eliot walks back, plate in hand, and Jack watches curiously as he pulls out his phone and does something with it one-handed. He's going to have to figure out how those things work, eventually, he reminds himself. It seems like they're important to the function of Darrow in general. For now though, he's content with keeping his at the bottom of his coat pocket.

"You have that one, then. If you like it." Jack takes off his hat and sets it aside on a low tufted stool, then runs a hand back through his hair to smooth it as he looks over his options. After brief consideration he takes one of the croissants. Maybe if something is left over he'll take it back to Anne. They haven't had much to eat these past couple days that's actually tasted good.

He tears off a piece and takes a bite. It's much better than what he's very able to purchase at the convenience store around the corner from the sisterhood, that's for sure. He sighs, his shoulders sloping down as he relaxes a little. "If anything is destined to survive me, I'm glad for it to be my flag. It means that the pains I've taken to make it speak for itself have been worthwhile." He looks down and tears off another little piece of the croissant, but just holds it for now. "I might have wanted it tied intrinsically to myself and my exploits, but if what you say is true—" he gestures towards Eliot with the larger piece of his croissant. "It's transcended that. It's become a symbol." A small smile forms on his lips. "Jack Rackham's flag the symbol for all piracy. That's very gratifying."

He leans back in his chair. "But that's not here in Darrow, correct? That's what you know from your Earth."

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot wants to protest, a little annoyed, that he was offering the tart because he thinks Jack would like it, not because he wants it for his own. But he finds himself arrested and stands slack-jawed for a moment as he watches Jack run a hand through his hair. Oh, he thinks. Okay.

He sinks absently into a chair and notes how Jack's made himself comfortable, how he looks a little rumpled. How, Eliot thinks as his gaze tracks between Jack's hair and his neck and the precise movements of his hands, the overall effect of his whole everything is actually...rather dashing.

This is going to be his whole day. He cuts the tart in half and considers Jack's take on the matter.

"Well, Captain," he says, keeping his tone light and conversational, "if a little gratification helps take the sting out of this whole kidnapping situation, then I'm happy to provide." And he is, certainly, he knows his interest here is more than just historical curiosity. Eliot doesn't let the thought sit for too long though, both because Jack is a bit hard to read, and at that point Dharma brings the coffee over.

"As far as I've been able to tell, the course of history in this world was much the same as mine." Eliot moves on, thinking about parallels and points of divergence as he strains the grounds and starts to pour Jack a cup. "Different names perhaps, different artists and musicians of note, but my education became...specialized after a certain point, I don't..." He thinks about what he knows of magical history, and wonders how forthcoming he should be here. There were certainly plenty of Magicians in early modern times who got moderately famous in the mundane world, but who knows whether Jack would have heard of them.

"It's a bit esoteric, like are you familiar at all with John Dee? It's all to do with symbols and balance, and I can't imagine what it must have been like for you, just scores of people out there on the ocean trying make names for themselves, but you know, very good work there, crafting something that means intimidation so clearly. There's power in that." He could probably make a decent sigil out of it, with a bit of time, though who knows what he'd use it for. He's getting lost in the weeds a bit. 

He clears his throat. "How do you take it?" he asks, handing Jack the cup and saucer. "Cream and sugar?"

[jackrackham]

"John Dee..." Symbols and balance, Eliot says, as if that explains what he's talking about.

"Just sugar," he says, nodding to the sugar bowl and considering that adding cream to coffee sounds unpleasant. It would seem to him that the cream would have a tenancy to curdle. Instead of pushing over the bowl, Eliot picks up a cube and drops it into his coffee for him. That's unexpected, but he doesn't know the customs here. Maybe that's how it's done.

"Two," he requests, and once Eliot has performed this feat a second time, Jack sets his cup on the table and picks up a spoon, taking a moment to stir in the sugar while he scours his memory for anything he remembers about John Dee and what that might possibly have to do with his flag.

"He was in Elizabeth's court. I believe he wrote a book on navigation, but I'm afraid I haven't read it. A bit before my time." He taps his spoon gently on the rim of his cup, then rests it on the saucer. "Otherwise he was known as a mage or something of that sort, wasn't he? People say he inspired Prospero, though I doubt highly he had any extraordinary powers other than a desire for power and a talent for convincing people of thorough nonsense."

He lifts his cup and takes a sip, and is surprised by the taste. He's used to coffee being bitter, but this isn't at all. It's nice. He takes a second sip before returning to the thought at hand.

He realizes, belatedly, that Eliot may have been insinuating that his schooling was in some way inspired by Dee, and perhaps disparaging the man had been insulting. He likes Eliot, and so far he's appreciated his help, so he hedges a little as he continues. "...though perhaps that was different in your history."

[eliotwaugh]

He makes a note of how Jack takes his coffee; it's worth knowing, even if he is a little brusque about it, but perhaps it can't be helped. Eliot can't imagine he'd do very well at retaining his own manners if he were suddenly plunked down in such an alien environment. There's so much to adjust to.

Eliot fixes his own cup, light and sweet--and he's well past the age where he cares if that makes him look childish. It's far more important to enjoy himself. He does his best to listen to what Jack knows of the the Tudor philosopher, instead of simply staring at his delicate, mesmerizingly precise hands. Eliot introduced the subject after all, and he needs to know what kind of knowledge base Jack has before he dumps more potentially stressful revelations on him.

"Oh no, you've got it right," he says, once Jack's finished. He takes a breath; the moment of truth. "Of course I don't know if magic exists in your world, but...well. It does in mine, you see, though it's not common knowledge. By all accounts Dee only learned enough to gain wealth and court influence, never had any real talent or appreciation for the art." Eliot smirks a little, taking a sip of his coffee. "Funny how he made a better Magician in Shakespeare than he ever did in life."

"I realize that's a lot to take in," Eliot adds, with a bit of a sympathetic wince. "And I'd hate for you to write me off as some kind of charlatan so-" He lays out a napkin on front of him and drips a spoonful of coffee onto it, before looking up at Jack with a grin. "I'll give you a bit of a demonstration, this is a fun little exercise." It's a limited reversal of entropy field; he makes the framework with his fingers, and as he pushes down on the space above the napkin, the coffee stain shrinks and reconstitutes itself into a perfect orb of liquid resting against the white surface.

It only takes a minimum of telekinetic force to direct the little ball to skating over the surface, drawing out a design in coffee. "There you go," Eliot says cheerily once he's done, and he slides the napkin across to Jack, now adorned with skull and swords. "Not as grand as claiming to transcribe the language of angels, but it's much more fun at parties."

[jackrackham]

Jack sets aside his croissant and reaches out tentatively to bring the napkin closer to himself. He looks down at the coffee-stained outline of his flag. Absurdly, his first thought is that he's glad that Eliot hadn't been mistaken. It's a decent approximation.

He stares at it for a full ten seconds, tapping his fingers against the surface of the paper and trying to process the fact of it. He'd seen the coffee-stain pull itself together and roll forward like a ball of mercury. Like he'd reversed time and then played with the result.

"Parties, right," he says, distracted. He flips over the napkin, finding nothing but the faded lines of the design on the other side. He doesn't know what he'd been expecting, maybe proof of some sort of mechanism in play here, or proof that Eliot is using some sort of technology that he doesn't understand.

"This is- Well, that's my flag." He shakes his head, then looks up far enough to glance at Eliot's hands, looking for the trick to reveal itself. He wants to say that it's impossible, but if it was done without magic he doesn't know how. He finally turns the napkin back over and leans back in his chair.

Magic. Real and a field of study, has strange and extraordinary implications. If what Eliot says is true, the extent of it must be far greater than what he saw today. A specialized education implies a specialized career, and his mind supplies too many possibilities from old stories. The calming of storms, the calling of demons or angels, food for a hundred people from nothing, resurrections.

"Alright," he says finally. He runs a hand over his face and then finally looks back at Eliot. He doesn't find the face of someone that had just made him the butt of a joke, but he's not sure how to read his expression otherwise.

"What can this be when it's not a party trick?"

[eliotwaugh]

For a full ten seconds Jack appears to have completely shut down, and looking at him makes Eliot feel guilty. He's been through enough already, being taken here. Eliot himself had a hard enough time adjusting when he first arrived, and he had a reasonable foundation of dimensional travel under his belt. But now he's gone and tried too hard to be impressive, again, and to what end? He frowns a little, and keeps eating. The pastry is exactly as flaky and delicious as it always is, but Eliot enjoys it a little less as he sits and waits for this man to, probably, have some kind of meltdown.

But then he doesn't; Jack seems to pull himself together, and Eliot wonders if that's simply what he looks like when he's thinking. And it's a very good question he's raised.

"Aren't you shrewd," says Eliot, feeling less guilty and much more impressed. "And unfortunately it depends. Back home, the systems I learned, there were limits to one person's capability, variables dependent on when and where you're working a spell and some rather nasty consequences if you pushed yourself too far and fucked it up." That's putting it lightly, makes it sound like a joke, but Eliot doesn't have the wherewithal to get deep into theory and personal tragedy here. He sighs.

"Here, though? I'm not certain what the limits are, and I haven't tried too hard to find out. There are people here from different worlds whose abilities seem limitless to my understanding. Perhaps they're operating on a different scale, but," he shrugs and sips his coffee. "For myself it's a convenience. Minor mendings, finding lost objects, lifting heavy boxes, that sort of thing. Bit of crime," Eliot adds, because if anyone's going to refrain from judgement on that score it's a known criminal, "and there's battle magic, of course, but I dislike personal violence and so far there hasn't been a need."

That's downplaying it by a fair margin, but he doesn't want to leave Jack completely overwhelmed. Eliot nudges the halved tart toward him, slightly annoyed that he hadn't taken the hint. "Here, this is for you," he says gently. "Try it."

[jackrackham]

Jack squints back at being called shrewd, unsure if it's genuine or if Eliot thinks that it's a telling question for a pirate to ask.

The explanation that Eliot gives is interesting, but seems purposely vague. He'd like to learn more about all of this, but maybe that's too much to ask for right away. Most of all he'd like to ask if he could learn Eliot's kind of magic. If Darrow is magical and Eliot's sort of magic is a field of study, it should be possible, but maybe being from a place without magic means that he'll always be unable to perform it.

The list of uses isn't particularly impressive until Eliot gets to crime and battle magic. Those, he could use.

"Oh." He reaches out and takes the other half of the tart. He'd thought that Eliot had wanted it for himself, but he's happy to try it. He takes a bite and hums in approval. It's been a while since he's eaten anything with apples as an ingredient, and it feels weirdly comforting. Maybe it's just that it's good to eat something that feels like real food.

"It's very good, thank you." He takes another bite and savors it for a moment before continuing on. "So...your college," He sets the tart down and lifts his hand to his mouth to suck a bit of stray crystallized sugar off of the pad of his thumb. "what was it that you were actually studying to be? What does a mage do?" The corner of his lips lifts into a restrained smile. "I doubt it's crime."

"Well," he amends, "I suppose it depends on the nature of the crimes, but generally a degree is not required."

[eliotwaugh]

"Uh," Eliot says eloquently as all thought comes to a screeching halt. Jack is saying something, asking questions and none of it registers because it takes every fiber of Eliot's being not to keep staring at his fucking mouth.

He shifts in his chair, tapping the cup in some desperate attempt to burn off the sudden nervous energy suffusing him. Eliot tries to think, tries to pay attention to what Jack is saying and who knows what his own face must be doing. Is he sweating? For fuck's sake. It can't have been intentional, and Eliot can't believe something so mundane's got him hot and bothered.

"The--crimes, okay no." He's starting to catch up. "I mean it was--the point was to be good at it, to achieve mastery of the craft, it's...it's all academia, people either have to want to teach or be scholars for decades or just...find something else for their lives to be about." It's a far more useful feeling to seize upon, the old frustration that none of them were ever really served well by what Brakebills offered. "The magical job market isn't very exciting, I'm afraid. It gets...people get bored. People make bad choices when they're bored."

He's not bored now, though he still feels like he's teetering on the edge of something. He should be more careful. Eliot heaves a little sigh, and makes himself smile, all bland affability. It's fine. "I've found employment here but even with that and the stipend from the City I'd rather supplement my income and be...comfortable. It's mostly harmless, I think."

[jackrackham]

"What sort of-" He's curious what exactly Eliot is doing to make money, and what makes it so harmless, but he shakes his head, negating the question. Perhaps Eliot is being vague for a reason. He imagines him methodically cutting out pieces of paper while saying magic words, then shuffling the pieces between his hands until they become paper bills. He frowns, having trouble fitting this into the larger picture of what Eliot is telling him.

"Sorry, I don't think I understand." He picks up his coffee and takes a sip, and closes his eyes for a second. The coffee is sweet and strong, and it gives him a moment to get his thoughts straight about this. "You're saying that, on your Earth, in your time, magic is a skill that people can learn," he gestures to the napkin, "with real measurable effect, and no one uses it?"

"What about those trained for battle?" Eliot had said that he'd learned battle magic, but that he doesn't like to get his hands dirty. He's not sure if that implies that there are people who do, or if it's just a compulsory thing, no longer used by anyone. "Mending, but no magical tailors? Lifting, but no magical builders? Is that it?"

Jack sets his coffee down and spends a moment settling it into the saucer as he talks. "I don't mean to cast aspersions on you, but how you speak of it—" He lifts his head, meeting Eliot's eyes. "What's the point of learning something so wondrous if it is destined to be hidden away?"

[eliotwaugh]

If there's a silver lining to be found in all this, it's that Jack's line of questioning pulls Eliot up short, any thought about inconvenient attraction banished to the back of his mind.

"Well," Eliot starts to answer, but he can't quite manage to get a thought out. His first instinct is to be insulted, and part of him wants to defend his education, the idea of doing something for its own sake because it was difficult and worth the effort, but as affronted as he may be, Jack's questions are...annoyingly pertinent. He's not wrong, that's the fucking thing.

He stares at his coffee, which supplies no answers. As defensive as he feels, he also wants to agree: yes, it was all kind of bullshit in the end, no it didn't prepare any of them for what they'd actually end up encountering. Yes, he's still a little bitter. Even if he did get a good deal out of it. He wishes there were easy answers, or ones he could give without sounding like a complete prick. But he can't just keep silent either, not in the face of Jack's scrutiny.

"I think Magicians have been asking themselves what the point is since the beginning," he replies with a sigh. He remembers all the arguments he used to get in with Richard, practically screaming matches. Fucking morally simplistic Christian Richard. "Practically speaking, not many people can do magic, and the general public don't know it exists, and I assume the secrecy is to prevent Magicians from becoming, I don't know, exploited for labor. Or maybe it's oversight to keep us from turning into maniacal dictators. Wondrous or not, magic can't change human nature. There are people who study to try and improve existing technology, or use magic to mitigate natural disasters and climate change, but I honestly don't know that there are enough Magicians to make a difference."

Eliot knows he's running the risk of becoming very grim, and he ought to leave it at that. He thinks as he sips the coffee and sets the cup back down, and he can't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice when he adds, "They didn't train us for battle, at my school. They assured us we wouldn't need to use that kind of magic." And they were so very wrong, but he can't get into all that with a stranger.

[jackrackham]

Jack watches Eliot's face as he says they assured us we wouldn't need to use that kind of magic and guesses by his shift in mood that there's second half that Eliot isn't saying. Something like but we did anyway or they were wrong. He can't be entirely sure. Eliot had said he hadn't had need for battle magic, so he was either lying or his shift in mood is about the criticism to his schooling, which is...fair, he supposes. He's just met the man, maybe he shouldn't be trying to analyze the ins and outs of Magician-academia.

"Ah." He wants to ask if Eliot had tried to make a difference and failed. He wants to ask what the hell climate change is. Instead, he takes another sip from his cup and tries to work backwards to a subject that feels like more solid ground.

"So...your job here, it doesn't have anything to do with magic?"

[eliotwaugh]

"Not officially, no." Eliot manages a smile, relieved that Jack's changed the subject. He's doing a poor job of being welcoming, answering innocent questions with his own personal baggage. This, in comparison, is much easier to talk about.

"I'm at an archive, set up by a couple of people who came from a world where they were doing similar work, and they...wanted to get back into it," he elaborates. He leaves out that it was a matter of medical necessity, for John. "So apparently in addition to the horrible little envelopes they supply when you arrive, the city has just...a bunch of files on all the people who get kidnapped here. I don't know if they just appear or what, or how long this has even been going on, but no one's done any cataloging of it whatsoever and these fellows offered to take on the work." Eliot smirks a little. "I think City Hall was probably glad to be rid of it, it's a massive shambles, no sort of order to be found and well, given the esoteric nature of some of the people who arrive here some of the information is...in a bit of a state. The magic's actually been rather helpful, setting up containment, and that sort of thing. But it's mostly boring."

A thought occurs to him, as he finishes off his half of the tart. "You know they'll probably have your file in sometime soon, if you're interested in stopping by. Can't guarantee you'll find any information as to why the hell any of this is happening, but." Eliot shrugs sympathetically. "Better than nothing, I suppose."

[jackrackham]

The change of subject seems to have helped Eliot's mood, but it hadn't relieved him of his questions and as Eliot continues he only collects more. The idea of a file just appearing about him or Anne is disturbing, but the mystical nature of that is somehow more acceptable to him than the possibility of a person in City Hall sitting down and writing all of his information down— somehow knowing all of his information, and then tossing it aside onto a pile of all the others.

He nearly asks what about files needs containment, but he's afraid that would only open another avenue he's not totally prepared to go down at the moment.

He raises his eyebrows in an effort to stop furrowing them in confusion. "Yes, I suppose." He makes an attempt to look merely thoughtful instead of bewildered and, failing that, takes a moment to pop the remainder of the apple tart in his mouth. That, at least, is manageable.

"I may take you up on that offer, though I think I may try to acquire knowledge of a more general nature, first." He huffs out a breath. It's so frustrating to feel so far behind. "There is much here that I don't understand. Surely there's a bookseller somewhere. Or—" A thought occurs to him and he nods in the direction of the library. "Do you know who manages the library? If it's a local university perhaps I could petition for access."

[eliotwaugh]

Jack's initial response is noncommittal, and Eliot wonders if his explanation of the Archive wasn't as enlightening as he'd hoped. It's a difficult line to walk, he realizes, trying to provide useful information without being overwhelming. Jack's little face journey only confirms that Eliot was not cut out for teaching.

He's finishing off his cup of coffee when Jack mentions the library, and he has to stop himself from choking on it once he realizes what this means.

"--petition for access?" he says, swallowing abruptly and clearing his throat. "You mean you haven't...you haven't been to the library?" He grins, positively gleeful. "Oh my fucking god you haven't been to the library. Okay this is--change of plans. Finish your coffee, we need to get over there immediately." This is perfect. This is going to be amazing.

"So okay yes, there's a lot of weird and horrible aspects to life in these times," he starts to explain as he consolidates his mess, "but they've really done some amazing things with public services. 'Cause all the little bits of sales tax on things like clothes and coffeeshop lunches--are you going to want that?" He gestures at the scone, urging Jack to finish up. "We can get a bag or something if you want to take it with. Anyway, the city government gets all the tax money and they use it to fund things like the public library. You already have access, it belongs to all of us."

He might sound a bit evangelical, but honestly, Eliot's got a good feeling about this. "Come on, you're gonna love it."

[jackrackham]

"Oh, here, I can-" Jack pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket, sets the scone and leftover croissant inside, ties it back together, and bundles it away back into his pocket. He's not entirely sure how he feels about sales tax and Eliot is rather rushing over the concept, but the details are easy to ignore in the face of Eliot's enthusiasm.

It's easy, too, to be enthusiastic about the idea of a public library. He stands when Eliot does, and retrieves his hat. The woman behind the coffee shop counter says something that he assumes is a goodbye, and he nods his thanks as they walk out the door. He's getting a little too caught up in thinking about the library.

"How does it work?" He asks as they walk over. Without waiting for an answer, he continues on, "Do you know what sort of books they have?" He's not entirely sure what he wants to find— Maybe just something that would help ease the strangeness of this place. Enough information that kind strangers don't have to stop him on the street and tell him things everyone else already knows.

The front of the building is impressive, with stone and Corinthian columns surrounding a door made of wood and glass. Eliot opens the door ahead of him and jack steps through.

His hand grips tighter to the brim of his hat and he pauses in the doorway, for a moment stuck to the spot as he takes in the scope of the build, the great number of shelves. It's a large building, but he hadn't expected a collection like this. It's marvelous.

"Oh." He smiles, soft and a little awed at what he's seeing.

A woman walks in the door behind them and Jack watches her head to one of the tables before he's spurred into action himself. There's so much here and he doesn't know what he's actually allowed or how it works. He should go right to the desk, but instead his feet take him over to the nearest shelf and he lifts his hand to run his fingers along the spines of the books. The shelf says Literature and with surprise he realizes that these are all novels. And this row of shelves doesn't contain half of the fiction collection.

"Novels." He echoes to himself, then walks out from the row and squints at the next sign down. History, and then geography. A good place to start, once he knows how this place works. He turns back to find Eliot, a smile still lingering on his lips. "You're right. I do love it."

[eliotwaugh]

When he takes their ephemera to the bussing tray in the corner, Eliot pockets the napkin. Jack's already gathering his things to leave. The little coffee drawing certainly isn't great art, but all the same he feels bad just throwing it away.

Jack is a flurry of excitement once they're out the door, and Eliot can barely get a word in edgewise. "Like, lots of kinds?" He doesn't really know what the state of literacy was in Jack's time, but he's glad at least that he was right in pegging the man as a nerd. The absolute awe on his face as he sees the inside of the library is--charming, certainly, but also infectious. Eliot misses being that excited about something like this, but he'll have to content himself with enjoyment by proxy.

Jack wanders like a kid in a candy store, and Eliot can't help a fond smile as he makes his own way to the reference desk.

"Hi," he says to the librarian, the sort-of cute one whose name he hasn't gotten yet, "would you happen to have a little copy of the classification system? My ah, associate over there--" and he points to Jack peering at the stacks. Eliot wants to call him a friend but that seems...presumptuous. "He's new to the whole concept."

"Oh, of course," the librarian replies, and when he reaches for a display of brochures Eliot catches a glimpse of his nametag. Charlie. He wonders idly what kind of person goes by a nickname in a professional capacity, and whether he has lots of freckles. He looks like he has lots of freckles. "Here." Charlie hands him a couple items with a blandly polite smile. "There's the Dewey system listing and also the general information, hours and loan periods. He can register over at the circulation desk."

Eliot gives him a smirk and a wink. "You're a lifesaver," he says, but he barely registers the blush this produces on Charlie's face because Jack has returned from his initial exploration and is looking at him like--like something, he doesn't know what.

For a moment Eliot can only stare at Jack, and cannot reply; it's a queer feeling, seeing someone made so happy by a comparatively small gesture, and he feels a flush of pride. Like he's back on the Muntjac, questing for the golden keys. Like he's driven back the Lorian army. For the first time since getting stuck here, Eliot thinks, it feels like he's done something right.

"Good," he answers with a small nod, smiling. "I'm glad." He clears his throat, finding it suddenly dry, and offers Jack the brochures. "So I've got some information to start you out with, the first thing I think is...do you have your ID card with you?"

[jackrackham]

Jack looks down at The brochures, scanning over the different categories of books in the library. It seems like they have a little bit of everything here. Most of the personal libraries that he'd had the privilege to peruse in the past were less general and more specialized. He lifts his head up to spare Eliot a smile and then looks back down at the second brochure. This one is a little more confusing. There's a section that talks about ebooks and computers and downloading things.

He skips over that section for the moment and goes to the next. He doesn't look up as he answers Eliot's question.

"If that's the thing with my face on it, it's back at the apartment." He wrinkles his brow, considering how strange it'd been to see his face there under the smooth little rectangle, when he hadn't even sat for the picture. He's quickly distracted, though, by the phrase check out books written on the brochure.

He goes to turn the brochure around to show Eliot, but stops and fumbles with his hat. He abandons trying to turn around the brochure with one hand, quickly places his hat back on his head, then uses both hands to turn the brochure around. He peers around the edge of the paper and taps with his other hand at the line that describes checking out books. "Does this mean I can take books out of the library?"

[eliotwaugh]

"Ah." Eliot can't help feeling a little disappointed at the Jack's answer, and he knows he looks it. Fortunately Jack is too distracted by the information in the brochures to look up, and by the time he's managed to wrangle both the papers and his hat (looking adorably overexcited), Eliot schools his expression into something neutral.

"Yes, that's what you'd need the card for," he explains, looking over the text that Jack's indicated. "I know it's all rather ghoulish, having that just show up with your image, but I'm afraid if's fairly essential to modern life. Of course in normal places you know, you go to a city office and have it made but I suppose Darrow can't do things without being dramatic." He rolls his eyes, thinking of his own picture. He'd get it out to show Jack, but honestly being here in a modern world again makes the kingly garb feel a little costumey and embarrassing.

And pirates aren't traditionally friends with royalty, he supposes. There's that.

"Anyway it's a basic proof of residence and identity, and if you bring it back in to the library you can register for a free membership card and they'll lend you books and things for...two weeks? Maybe longer if you ask for a renewal on the loan period. There's usually a small fee to pay if you return them late but it's nothing too dire." Eliot sighs, and looks around the space. "Without that you can still come in and read here, of course, but there's...not much else to be done."

[jackrackham]

"I have to bring the card to get a different card." he says, clarifying more for himself than really asking Eliot. It seems silly and strange, but people do seem to use different plastic cards for all sorts of things here.

Jack looks wistfully over at the library for a moment, considering just staying here and reading. He and Anne had agreed that they'd be back by sundown and it's far from that, but he knows that she'll be wondering where he is by now. His plan had been to go check on the other apartment they'd been given and he's taken much longer than that errand required.

"That's alright. I'll come back later. I should get going anyway, I want to tell Anne about all of this. Though I'm not sure she'll believe the magic until she sees it herself." He flashes a grin at Eliot, then looks down to tuck the brochures into the inside pocket of his coat. That done, he reaches a hand forward, offering Eliot a handshake. He's not entirely sure why he does it. This situation doesn't really require any sort of formal goodbye, but it seems lacking to leave without it. "Thank you for all of your help today. And the conversation."

[eliotwaugh]

He shrugs. It's been easy enough to readjust to modern technology and a life broken down into several essential pieces to carry around, but Eliot spent enough years in Fillory that he knows the irritation evident in Jack's voice. It's different here, being a part of a multitude and requiring more identification than just one's word.

Jack explains his plans for the day, his partner he needs to get back to. Eliot feels a little extraneous, like he could just go into work late after all. But he'd be distracted, worried maybe. He wishes there was more he could do. At the very least he can leave the offer open.

"Anytime," Eliot says, and he means it. Jack isn't quite the lost duckling Quentin was, wandering up the Brakebills lawn without a sense of self, but Eliot's feeling is similar enough: the man could use a friend. He takes Jack's hand, smiling. He really does have lovely hands, all cool skin and bony, delicate fingers. Eliot clears his throat. "I should give you my contact information, in case there's anything you need or...just to chat? I know there's a lot to adjust to, but something tells me you'll be all right." As soon as he says it, it feels far too earnest for someone he's just met, and Eliot nods in what he hopes is a masculine way and punctuates the handshake by clapping Jack on the shoulder.

[jackrackham]

"I'm sure I will." Jack's about to nod in response when Eliot claps him on the shoulder. Instead, he cringes at the sudden spike of pain over his freshly stitched wound.

"Ah-" He lets go of Eliot's hand and gestures to his right shoulder. "I was in a vanguard, one of the men got a hit in with his saber before I killed him. It's alright. Still fresh, but it's been stitched up." He touches his shoulder briefly, testing it for himself before remembering what Eliot had just said.

"Did you mean the phone?" Jack takes a moment and pulls the obtuse thing out of his pocket. He'd only brought it along with him today on the very slim chance that Anne might want to use it to contact him. He turns it over in his hand and wakes the light behind the panel, then frowns at it. "I'm afraid learning how this works hasn't been a priority, but now that I have access to a library I imagine it will be quick work." That's very optimistic, but he doesn't want to look stupid in front of Eliot with a thing that seems so simple to everyone here.

He stares at the screen a moment before he can remember which odd sigil Greta had pressed before adding in her contact information. He presses that and brings up a list that includes her, Anne, and himself, and then offers the phone to Eliot. "You can put that information in here. Ah...mine is there, as well."

[eliotwaugh]

He draws back, startled when Jack winces, and immediately starts to apologize.
"Shit, I'm--" but he cannot finish his thought, boggled as he is by trying to reconcile the image of this man, who's shown himself to be curious and intellectual, with the idea of recent deadly combat. Eliot wants to ask but by the time he thinks to Jack's moved on, fumbling with his phone.

"It's...not that intuitive," Eliot says as he takes the device, unable to really speak quickly while he's trying to remember his own number to add to Jack's contacts. "Unless you've got the knowledge base of uh, older communications technology. Hold on." He pulls out his own phone to check his work and add Jack's number. "I know people here seem like they're born phone-in-hand, but, well. In my case for example it's been a few years since I've even had one, magic and electronics don't really mix that easily where I came from."

He shrugs, completes the entry, and gives Jack back his phone with an apologetic grimace. "I'm so sorry about that," Eliot says, looking at his shoulder. He wonders what kind of medical intervention Jack would have had access to, but it can't have been great. He almost wants to suggest they go to the hospital or a clinic to get it looked at, but the atomic half-life of this conversation is inexorably fizzling out and to linger would just make him feel a bit pathetic. "I should...let you go, but I'm glad to have been of some help. I hope you have a good rest of your day."

When Eliot turns to leave he feels more awkward than he has in literal years. But, he supposes, it always could have gone worse.

[jackrackham]

Jack slips his phone back into his coat pocket and nods to Eliot. He almost wants to ask about Eliot saying that it's been a few years since he had a phone. That doesn't seem to fit with the rest of what Eliot had told him about his world. Maybe it's not worth it to ask, and he's already taken up enough of Eliot's time, anyway.

"You too." Jack nods at him and turns to go.

He's two steps outside when the cold hits him and he instinctively reaches up to tighten the scarf around his neck. His hands stall and he quickly turns back around. He'd forgotten that he was still wearing Eliot's scarf.

He pulls the large door open again and nearly walks into Eliot on his way out. "Oh, Eliot-" He chuckles, taking a step back out of Eliot's personal space and pulling the scarf from around his neck. "Your scarf- It was much appreciated."

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot pulls up short when Jack nearly collides with him, too close and too sudden and he feels a little alarmed before he understands what Jack's saying.

"Ah-" he stammers, absently touching his own neck. "No it's--it's fine." It's not that he'd forgotten about the scarf, but he'd just assumed that the loan was going to last longer than an afternoon. New arrival, unprepared for the cold. It might have been an expensive accessory but it's not as if Eliot doesn't have others at his disposal.

He puts a hand up to stop Jack, and offers him an appeasing smile. "You can just borrow it for a while, I really don't mind."

[jackrackham]

The offer is unexpected, but kind. His hands stall when Eliot puts up his, and he smiles in surprise at the offer. He'd expected that Eliot would want the scarf back, not only to warm himself, but because he doesn't trust that he'll actually see Jack again.

"Alright." He studies Eliot for a second, not entirely sure that he should trust what seems like kindness for no reason, then nods. When he says "Thank you," it's genuine, but his brow is furrowed, trying to fit unfamiliar pieces together.

"Til later, then." He nods to Eliot one last time, then heads back out into the cold. Eliot has given him so much that he wants to tell Anne, and so much to do now that he has an entire library at his disposal. For the first time since they arrived he feels like he has a direction, and it feels good.