The next time he sees Jamie she’s - well, she certainly looks different, and Michael has to remind himself not to stare at least three times, as he picks his way through the hodgepodge of tables and chairs scattered around the cafe.
Of course he remembers being invited here - he still has the email on his phone, as it was too nice to delete. It had simply said, Usually at ff location in the mornings when in London, come see me - and so when he’d fallen out of bed that morning it had been the first thing on his mind.
He normally doesn’t take much time on his clothes when he’s not doing the press round or the film festival circuit; there is a certain freedom and anonymity in going out dressed “normally”. Still, he’s wearing a button-down shirt, still miraculously free of wrinkles, over a nice pair of jeans and his favorite battered sneakers; and he’s tried to put his hair into some semblance of order, though he’s kind of antsy to get all the brunette out completely. It never fails to amuse him when his stubble and his hair don’t match but today he feels like he’s on tenterhooks.
Jamie in the morning is almost as fine a sight as she is on the last night he saw her, wielding a broken beer bottle in her hand and ready to unleash bloody murder. Her hair is pinned up messily at the nape of her neck. With it out of the way the sun picks out every single freckle visible above her - wait, what?
It takes the barista a few moments to make Michael’s coffee and he certainly needs that time to process what Jamie’s wearing. V-necked t-shirt and a black blazer over a floor-length skirt? Eyeglasses? It’s a complete change from the hellcat out on the town, and for a brief moment Michael wonders if maybe she’s trying to method-act her next role.
Jamie looks up as he approaches her table. In the morning light, the glasses make her look simultaneously very young and very knowing, and Michael is more than grateful to sit down. “Took you long enough to get here.” The mischievous Scottish lilt of her voice hasn’t changed - thank goodness for small mercies. “I thought you would run off on me.”
“And miss a chance to see you like this,” Michael says, not really thinking about it.
“Well I do like a man who thinks on his feet and looks good doing it.” Jamie grins - and that’s her troublemaking smile, and he returns it with interest. “Is it hard to believe I dress like this on my days off?”
“I’ve learned to expect nothing except the certainty of your smile and the way you punch,” Michael says.
She laughs, and he thinks, Well. I’m certainly doomed.