Jack was tense, and when Jack looked at him more directly - even in that glance - he got more tense. He lifted one knee up, taking the pressure off the back, and instinctively guarding his stomach. His expression also got a whole hell of a lot harder.
"I'm not sleeping with Jones," he said, flatly. "1906. When in the twenty-first are you?" There was a hint of demand in that. Not that he needed to know, but that if he was giving up anything, even as inane as the year, he was getting something back.
And the year wasn't inane, not when he was giving it to himself.