Apparently his sales technique is a little lacking from disuse. The man smiles back at him, wide, friendly-like, unnerving, and seems decided to keep the chair instead.
That hadn't been Jack's intention. It's not that he pouts—he's a grown man, and Jack Sparrow besides—so it must be a frown that turns down the corners of his mouth and puffs out his lower lip. He wants that spot. He likes that spot. It's one of the only things that makes this place bearable, and he's tired, and he's standing here, with the muscle of his inner thigh burning, and the man (with hair!) won't move.
It's not a pout.
The smile, however, is apparently meant to be genuine. Jack eyes the interloper suspiciously. "You're not from around here, are you?"
The man's new, or at least Jack's never seen him before and he's been around enough now to recognise most faces passing through—the nurses, the porters, the other patients. Been coming here long enough to have seen a few waves pass through, those who have left for other jobs or other wards, and those who have recovered to go home to their families. And those that don't, who go elsewhere, the ones Jack doesn't want to think about.
Despite the standard comings-and-goings of the floor, Jack more means London itself. Royal Marsden is one of the best hospitals in London (James informed him of that, of course, in a shaky, dry barritone, with lots of the throat clearing, trying and failing to hide his nerves when he offered up the findings of the secret research he'd done on Jack's case; just like a lawyer), which makes it one of the best hospitals in the country, and people come from all over. And the man's accent is generic, hard to place, which means he could be from anywhere and probably is; no one sounds like that without hiding something.
More than that, no Londoner suggests sticking around for a chat. Londoners pointedly, politely ignore one another, stuck in their own little bubble of oxygen in a sea of restless humanity. Jack likes Londoners; they're easy to startle. This man seems good at that—or poor at that; Jack isn't sure—and that strangely, irrationally makes Jack almost warm up to him.
"Could do with a chair. If you're wanting for conversation." He nudges his IV stand, a tangle of lines looping down to thread under the hem of his boxers. "What's your name?"
no subject
That hadn't been Jack's intention. It's not that he pouts—he's a grown man, and Jack Sparrow besides—so it must be a frown that turns down the corners of his mouth and puffs out his lower lip. He wants that spot. He likes that spot. It's one of the only things that makes this place bearable, and he's tired, and he's standing here, with the muscle of his inner thigh burning, and the man (with hair!) won't move.
It's not a pout.
The smile, however, is apparently meant to be genuine. Jack eyes the interloper suspiciously. "You're not from around here, are you?"
The man's new, or at least Jack's never seen him before and he's been around enough now to recognise most faces passing through—the nurses, the porters, the other patients. Been coming here long enough to have seen a few waves pass through, those who have left for other jobs or other wards, and those who have recovered to go home to their families. And those that don't, who go elsewhere, the ones Jack doesn't want to think about.
Despite the standard comings-and-goings of the floor, Jack more means London itself. Royal Marsden is one of the best hospitals in London (James informed him of that, of course, in a shaky, dry barritone, with lots of the throat clearing, trying and failing to hide his nerves when he offered up the findings of the secret research he'd done on Jack's case; just like a lawyer), which makes it one of the best hospitals in the country, and people come from all over. And the man's accent is generic, hard to place, which means he could be from anywhere and probably is; no one sounds like that without hiding something.
More than that, no Londoner suggests sticking around for a chat. Londoners pointedly, politely ignore one another, stuck in their own little bubble of oxygen in a sea of restless humanity. Jack likes Londoners; they're easy to startle. This man seems good at that—or poor at that; Jack isn't sure—and that strangely, irrationally makes Jack almost warm up to him.
"Could do with a chair. If you're wanting for conversation." He nudges his IV stand, a tangle of lines looping down to thread under the hem of his boxers. "What's your name?"