Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well? (for John)

[jackrackham]

Jack arrives at the archive cautiously, early in the morning, for the first time hoping that Eliot won't be here. He's looking for Martin, because he needs advice and can't think of anyone else that might give a damn about modern social mores around giving gifts. Martin likes to be helpful, and he's ostensibly friendly with Eliot, so he's definitely the best option that he has today.

Only, as the little bell on the door announces his arrival, he realizes that no one is here. No Martin, no Eliot, no anyone. He steps in, and heads for Martin's office to make sure he's not there. He finds an empty desk, a stack of files arranged neatly on one side. He could just grab them and leave with some interesting reading, but that's not what he's here for.

He heads towards the back, thinking that maybe everyone is going through boxes, but he stops when he hears a voice through the other office door. He knocks gently. No answer, so he opens the door and finds John sitting behind his desk, reading aloud. He hasn't had much time to speak with the man, but he recognizes him, knows him as Martin's partner in this business venture...or whatever The Archive actually is.

"Oh, I was looking for-" He stops. John is still reading. He doesn't look up, so Jack takes another step towards the desk. "Hello?"

Comments

[statement_ends]

It isn't that unusual for John to arrive well before Martin does. His sleep schedule is still a nebulous, inconstant thing that rarely sees him actually sleeping during the small hours, and it generally follows that if he's going to be awake, he might as well be working, and if he's going to be working, he might as well do it at work. The short walk from his flat to The Archive isn't always pleasant — even with Riggs gone, there's something off about a city at three or four in the morning — but it has the virtue of being brief, and he always feels a bit better once he's seated in the safe familiarity of his office.

It's also an excellent time to record Statements. Not that there are many in need of the treatment, but he has one, and that's enough to stop him having to delve into the box of Statements from home that he's been thinking of as an insurance policy.

The real irony is that he presumes starting in on it around seven will mean finishing up well before Martin gets in, thereby avoiding any potential interruptions.

John is so absorbed that the knock barely registers, but it's impossible to miss the door opening in his periphery, and the figure silhouetted there is plainly not Martin. Christ. John's gaze flicks briefly up to the door, just long enough to recognize Jack, and then he goes back to reading, the words continuing in an unbroken stream. He isn't sure he could stop if he tried. He is nearing the end, though, and after a moment, he manages to lift one hand, his index finger extended in what he hopes is a universal gesture for 'wait, please.'

[jackrackham]

Jack scoffs at the held-up finger, though when he takes another step forward, he notes the recording device sitting at the desk. Halfway towards saying something else, he closes his mouth and waits.

He realizes very quickly that this isn't a file that John is reading. It seems to be a story- someones account of fighting a monster or a demon or something like that. He's almost tempted to say that it might be something that John had written and decided to record, but he doesn't seem the type for creative writing and Darrow has over and over now taught him just how likely it is for extraordinary things to occur.

When John finishes up and finally turns his attention to Jack, Jack finds himself distracted from the reason he came here. "I didn't mean to barge in, but no one else is here. In fact, was looking for Martin, but..." He gestures to the written statement. "I'm sorry, but what was that?"

[statement_ends]

It isn't until the final refrain — "Statement ends," and the satisfied click of the recorder switching itself off — that John can really think about the intrusion, and he blinks up at Jack, wavering between guilt and annoyance.

He used to get interrupted all the time. He used to be interruptible.

John clears his throat. "You're a bit early for Martin," he replies, straightening the small sheaf of papers in his hand, a nervous fidget. "And this is a Statement." That isn't much of an explanation, but John isn't sure a proper one would be needed or desired, in this case. Whatever Jack's reason for barging in, it's plainly nothing to do with the Archive's true purpose. John tucks the papers back into their file and folds his hands over the plain manila cover.

"If you've come to deliver another bribe, I suppose I could consider it in Martin's stead," he continues dryly. "Otherwise, you're free to wait out front."

John hasn't spoken with Jack much — more often than not, he's here to see Eliot, and one of the many perks of not being technically in charge is that so long as his own work isn't being disrupted, he needn't concern himself with his colleague's choice to socialize on the clock. Still, he's got the distinct impression that Jack is the sort of person who shouldn't be left unsupervised, and after a moment, he gets to his feet. "Can I offer you some tea?"

[jackrackham]

There's so much in what John finally says that might require a response, that Jack is left staring at him trying to decide which is the most pressing for the entire moment it takes for John to stand and offer him tea.

"Alright," he nods, and by the time he's following John out of the office, his offence has made the decision for him. "It wasn't a bribe,' He says, "I was under the impression that I'd given the Archive money in return for a service. One that has not been particularly forthcoming. Christ, a bribe. If Martin thinks that's what that was, no wonder he hasn't been particularly forthcoming on his end of the deal." He sighs. He really had thought that he'd handled that situation well, but is seems that Martin had other ideas.

He tips his head down and rolls his shoulders forward into an aggrieved slouch as John begins to fiddle with the kettle. "Maybe I shouldn't have come to Martin for advice."

[statement_ends]

John arches an eyebrow at Jack's audibly offended grousing. Martin must have explained the situation to him, but then again, he's not sure how familiar anyone could expect an 18th-century pirate to be with things like modern liability laws.

"There are only so many services we can legally provide," John says evenly as he goes about filling the electric kettle and starting it heating. "Especially given the variable contents of the files. Setting aside the privacy issue of giving you access to files that aren't yours, there are potential liability issues on our end. If a file contained... I don't know, poison or something, we would be held responsible for your exposure. For example."

With Jack not being here for Eliot, John had rather assumed he intended to have another go at their immigration files (and there is, perhaps, an argument to be made that they're not as beholden to honoring the privacy of individuals who are no longer in the city, if push came to shove). Hearing that he's actually after advice is a surprise, and John throws him a startled look.

"Advice?" he echoes. Then, before he can think better of it: "What about?"

[jackrackham]

"Ah..." Jack pauses, assessing John and whether or not to ask him instead. He doesn't know much about John at all, but...Martin isn't here and there's no one else that he knows to ask.

"Modern social rules?" He blows out a flustered breath. "Eliot has given Anne and me a number of very thoughtful gifts, and I had thought to return the gesture. We were all...ah, we were at a botanical exhibit last week and Eliot made special note of a particular rose, so..." From the inside of his coat, Jack pulls out a linen handkerchief embroidered with a spray of pink roses. It's not quite finished- a green thread is still attached, the needle tucked carefully into the fabric. He shows it forward to John. "I have some skill in embroidery and I do think that he would appreciate it but-" Jack looks down at his work. It had taken a lot of very careful work, and he'd only realized today that it could be taken the wrong way. "...is this romantic? Eliot fucks men and I wouldn't want him to think that I'm making any kind of overture."

[statement_ends]

John almost regrets the question — the answer is certainly none of his business, and the look Jack gives him suggests that he's weighing the relative wisdom of sharing his dilemma with someone who looks as if they've stumbled face-first into every bad outcome life presented to them. But after that assessing pause, Jack begins to explain himself.

John grunts in sympathy at modern social rules. Tricky enough to navigate when you have modernity on your side, let alone when you've been thrown a few centuries off your usual mark. Martin would indeed be a better source on the matter, John thinks, but Jack keeps going at a clip, pulling an embroidered handkerchief out of his pocket. John blinks down at it in surprise — Christ, can most pirates do that sort of thing? — and then his gaze flicks back up to Jack as he lands on a concrete question. A question which is immediately followed by such a blunt assessment of Eliot's proclivities that John has to smother a startled cough.

"Wh—I, er," he starts, glancing between Jack and the embroidery as he struggles to pick one point of initial focus, "I supp—Jesus, that's really quite good." The embroidery ends up winning out, and John leans in to take a closer look. "You've done all this in under a week?"

[jackrackham]

"Oh," Jack says, surprised and flattered by the compliment. "Yes," the corners of his mouth tip up into a small smile. "granted I do have a lot of time on my hands these days, but it's not so difficult. The skill is in keeping the back clean-" Jack turns over the handkerchief, showing that the design on the back nearly matches the front. "If you're not careful it can become a big knotted mess."

[statement_ends]

"Christ," John murmurs, impressed. He doesn't think he's seen such tidy work that wasn't done by machine, and he can't imagine how difficult or finicky it would be to do as much by hand. He almost asks if he can take a closer look, but the beep from the kettle reminds him that there's tea to be made — and a more pressing, if less safe, topic of conversation than Jack's embroidery skills.

John straightens, then turns back to the tea station so prepare them each a cup. "Eliot does have a rather developed sense of style," he muses as he plunks a teabag in each mug and pours hot water over them, "so that does seem like the sort of gift he would appreciate. As to whether it's romantic..." John cants his head briefly, then shakes it. "I'm of the opinion that nothing is inherently romantic, quite frankly. If that isn't your intention, then that isn't what it is." The alternative — that some otherwise neutral gestures are off-limits because someone, somewhere, might potentially get the wrong idea — is absurd.