#bit of context here: jones had a lovely time in new newgate

[viric-dreams]

Jones Has a Coffee Date

The café is nearly packed, and the wall of noise hits Jones’ ears the moment he opens the door. It’s more than the usual lunch rush—students huddled at the large tables, gesticulating wildly at their notes and each other. In one corner, a trio of tomb colonists set out a game board and a pair of dice. A couple brush passed him, wandering out into the humid London air hand-in-hand. There’s too much going on for him to keep track of; too many faces to watch for suspicious behaviour. But there’s not much that he can do about it. 

He spots the man at a circular table against the back wall, near to the kitchens. The man wiggles his fingers at him in a silly approximation of a wave. At least the bastard had the sense to pick an unobtrusive spot in this chaotic café. With a deep breath, Jones puts on his best pleasant face and wades his way through the sea of patrons. 

A few feet from the table, his foot catches against the leg of a neighbouring chair and he stumbles, arms just barely reaching out to brace against a table in time. The couple occupying it startle at his landing, cups rattling, but drinks ultimately unspilt. From the corner table, the man chuckles at this, his laughter a dry and sour thing. 

“Jonesy, you made it!” He opens his arms wide to punctuate the greeting. He’s too loud, even in such a busy place. Jones slides into the seat across from him to try to close the distance. 

“I’m glad you came,” the man says. 

Jones nods in acknowledgement. “You asked.”

You gave me no choice. 

He grins at this, and Jones feels his stomach turn. 

He’s not saying anything more, just sat there holding that ridiculous, grating expression like he has nowhere else to be today. And perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps London’s finest truly have nothing better to do than to schedule coffee dates. 

“I don’t mean to keep you from your work—”

“No, no, Jones. Don’t worry about me. Worry about you. Now, how do you take your coffee?” 

Dear Christ, he doesn't have time for this. The Kolomanian Delegation’s celebration dinner is two hours from now. They’re far too close to the hotel for comfort. Any of his “fellow countrymen” could see him here talking to a constable, and even in plainclothes, the stench of the man is potent enough to even the most dimwitted of spies.

��An espresso, please.” 

This seems to delight him.

“One of those fancy drinks? I like that about you, Jones.” 

Please be quiet. Please stop saying my name.

The constable waves over a waitress with a wild swing of his arm. 

“One coffee for me, bring sugar. And green tea for my friend here… And we’ll take something to eat too. Maybe those little cakes.” 

If he’s hoping to get a rise out of him, Jones refuses to grant him that satisfaction. His hand curls loosely around the mug, letting the warmth permeate into his palm, whilst The Smug Constable takes a too-large bite of a jellied mushroom cake. His own remains untouched on its plate. 

“These things are really good,” The Slovenly Constable says, his mouth half full of pastry. Crumbs spill out onto his jacket, “You’ve got to give them a try.”

“I’m sure they are.” His hand wraps tighter around the mug. 

The tea tastes of nothing, only heat. He’s not sure if this is the fault of the beverage or his abused taste buds, desensitised to worrying amounts of coffee and that bitter aromatic the doctor had given him. All so that he can do his job. A job he’s unsure the constable is aware of. 

For nearly two months they’ve had this back and forth—the man calls and he comes. This uncomfortable dance that’s taken place since the ominous moment he’d come into Jones’ life, claiming to know who he is, that he’d finally put two and two together after that fateful arrest on New Years Eve. But he’d be willing to look past his sin, let the cop killer be. The Forgiving Constable is a generous man, after all. Jones simply needs to do him one little favour and it’ll all be forgotten. 

And here they sit, finally in the same room. A proper meeting—no last minute being stood up this time—and getting nowhere, that favour left dangling, unspoken. Instead, he sits across from the bastard in his chair, an errant glob of jelly in his ugly beard that he won’t wipe away–why won’t he wipe his face–picking away at this cake, as if he has all the time in the world and—

“Are you enjoying the Games so far?” The way he makes it sound like such friendly small talk makes his blood boil. Like two friends having a casual chat. 

How much does he know? 

Does he suspect Jones has been acting as a double agent? Very few agents of Black are even aware, only adding to his feelings of unease in the field. Likely, the man’s just fishing. 

“I can’t say I’ve seen much of it. Been keeping to myself, mostly.”

Will he call out the blatant lie? If the man clocks it as one, he doesn’t seem to give any indication of it, polishing off the cake to take a deep swig of coffee, before picking up the one from Jones’ plate. The jam remains, stubbornly clinging to his facial hair. 

“Is that so? I’ll bet you’ve got all sorts of fun little hobbies with all of that time on your hands now. You enjoying your freedom, jailbird?”

The snarl becomes a smile before the constable has the chance to spot the expression. 

“Indeed.” Jones replies sweetly, bringing the cup to his lips. This time, he doesn’t even register the heat, outsmoked by his own slow-roiling anger. This is another dead end. The Jam-Covered Constable has no intention of making requests, it’s simply another one of his silly plays. Jones knows this game, and has had enough of it. The man’s had his fun today, let him call again if he’s serious about–

“I saw our mutual friend the other day.” The man swipes at his lip with the back of his hand, just missing that spot of jam, hanging precariously. “He asked about you, you know. ‘How’s ol’ Robert doing? You keeping an eye on him?’” He leans forward, his sour breath wafting across the table, “What do you think I should tell him?”

Tell him I’m going to claw his eyes out of his fucking skull. I’ll break his fucking fingers and push them down his throat.

“I’m doing well, thank you.”

The constable frowns at this and reaches across the table. His hand wraps around Jones’ wrist, prying it from the cup. “Are you sure about that? You look so frail. Nothing like the man I arrested on New Years. Have you been eating, Jonesy?”

He wants to leap across the table and grab him by his stupid collar, smash that smug face of his into the table until it’s nothing but pulp and mushroom jelly. Over and over again until they have to pry him off of what’s left of him. Dig his fingers into muscle and bone and–

“...should take better care of yourself. A man who lives alone can’t afford to be ill. Not when he has to keep working.”

Jones gently slides his arm free from the man’s grip. He makes no effort to hold on. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, and when the constable makes no effort to continue the conversation Jones sets a few Echoes down onto the table. “I take it we’re done here, then?”

The man stares at him a moment, before leaning back in his seat. The derisive demeanour slides back onto his face.

“I’m looking forward to the next one, Jonesy. I might have a favour to ask of you then. Perhaps. But for now, be good.”

His hip clips the side of a table on his way out of the crowded café. He doesn’t even feel it.