i_jones: (it gives me a headache)
[personal profile] i_jones
This is it. Ianto has reached the end of his proverbial rope, the metaphorical straw that broke the camel's back. He can't take it anymore. He has had it up to here [not indicated, but probably a spot well above his head].

Aliens. He's going to go mad if he has to spend another day living with aliens inside of another alien. There was a nice period after Callie settled in where everything was a bit domestic and relatively quiet and nothing went unmanageably wrong. He wonders now if he wasn't just resolutely ignoring all the little things that were driving him so slowly up the wall that he hasn't noticed 'til now that he's at the ceiling. He can't even recover with a stiff drink because his house, which is actually an alien, won't let him near any alcohol, ostensibly for his health, which the house (the HOUSE WHICH IS AN ALIEN) claims he has been neglecting. So he's gone on a long walk (for his health) to the riftie Pub for a drink (for his mental health). It's refreshing and slightly bizarre to walk the relatively normal streets of Manhattan. The strangest people he walks past are a welcome change, just for being people. Even the unsettling man in the alley before the door to Wilmot's is some kind of a relief.

He orders a pint of cider at the bar and sits at one of the little tables, trying to soak in the warm and extremely human surroundings, and maybe work his stomach up for some definitely human food.
i_jones: indiefairy @ LJ (guys there's all this pizza and turtles)
[personal profile] i_jones
Welcome, welcome. Not through that door. I mean, you can try it, but all doors lead to breakfast. Even that one underneath the console. You thought you were being clever. Maybe once you've behaved yourself and the TARDIS judges you to be worthy, you can explore a little more. For now, breakfast. For one night only, the TARDIS has become - or rather, has been inhabited by - King Ianto's Coffee Stop. Would you like to join the club? He has pamphlets. And buttons! But more importantly, he has breakfast. Lots of breakfast. The countertops of the cozy diner are lined with plates of breakfast foods galore - bacon, eggs, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pudding, cockles, laverbread... and okay, there are American staples too. There's your pancakes and your french toast and hash browns and cupcakes or whatever strange sweet things Americans eat for breakfast. Oh, and tea. Lots of tea. And if you ask very nicely, King Ianto himself might brew up some of his very own coffee. It's so good, it has a cult following.*

The walls are decorated with a strange collection of primarily alien souvenirs. There's one whole section of postcards from other planets and galaxies. GREETINGS FROM MARS! says one particularly upbeat postcard, featuring swathes of blue sand and a setting blue sun. Many others are unreadable. There are flags, leis of unfamiliar flora, letters of commendation (right next to WANTED signs), photographs both old and new of various people and various Doctors posing next to various monuments and landmarks, and strangely enough, what looks to be a stolen sign commemorating Ianto's death, from the management of Mermaid Quay. Have a look around! You never know what you might find. Probably none of it is dangerous. The food definitely isn't.

Oh and also the ceiling is space and outside the windows is space and spaaaaaace.**

*((Ianto has an undiscovered power: his coffee improves you. Your health, your powers (temporarily), your mood, whatever needs fixing. Please drink responsibly.))

**not actually space
i_jones: (ehhhhhhhh)
[personal profile] i_jones
There's a trail of sweets leading him, labyrinthine, through the TARDIS. The rooms, the corridors, swirled along the walls, all within approximate arm's reach of a certain troll. Ianto follows it, fearing for the inevitable candied Lot's wife, though eventually he gives in and plucks a sherbet lemon off of what used to be a doorknob. The TARDIS probably wouldn't allow it inside if it weren't safe. Sugary occurrences aside, it's not been a bad day so far - the nerve pain in his legs is particularly unnoticeable, and dare he say he's even feeling well enough to go without the cane. He carries it still, just in case, but he's feeling optimistic (for once).

The first kitchen he finds has been ransacked by licorice and caramels, leaving him nowhere to sit and nothing to drink. He finds another, blessedly unmarked, although this one has the arguable downside of containing the Doctor, who does not seem as preoccupied by the possibility of some kind of candy minotaur as Ianto is. "Doctor," he starts hesitantly from the doorway, in that companion-esque 'there's something I've noticed that you haven't and I'm waiting for you to tell me if I should be scared of it' way.
i_jones: (thank you intern ianto)
[personal profile] i_jones
Once you get to the TARDIS - because you did follow those blue balloons through Central Park, didn't you, you got that clue, and maybe those of you with good (or not-bad) intentions found it a little easier to find, and were drawn to it, even - anyway, once you get to the TARDIS, you find a sign on the door, which is ajar. No, not that sign, a handwritten sign taped to the front that says PARTY (I PROMISE) with an arrow pointing inside. And yes, oh, isn't the console room nice, how merry-go-round, whatever. More importantly, there are signs on every door out of the room that say assorted things like PARTY THIS WAY and ALSO THIS WAY and JUST PICK ONE REALLY. There is one festive balloon tied to the console.

If you go through any or all of the doors, you'll find yourself in a room with a very large pool (that one might say looks like this one except much grander in scale). The pool is lined, not excessively, with taps in various shapes, sizes, and colors. Some pump out bubbles, some foam, some clouds, some... who knows? Surrounding the pool are chairs and tables with appetizers, desserts, drinks, and various types of cake. Also pie. There's a jukebox tucked into a corner playing a mixture of 80s songs, unfamiliar songs from various points in the future, and the occasional song in an alien language with a good beat. There are rooms if you need to change, and some doors might even take you to the wardrobe room if you need a bathing suit. And I guess you could explore further if you really wanted to, but why do that when you can party? Because most doors will probably lead you back to the pool room, let's be real.
i_jones: (signs of exploding)
[personal profile] i_jones
Ianto is on a mission. He's got a wheelchair - not because he needs one, really, the TARDIS is just really big sometimes and her libraries tend to be so disordered that hobbling around with his cane would be a really inefficient search method. He rolls down the aisles, pulling a book every so often and stacking them in his lap. He lingers in the science fiction section, or a section that just happens to have a lot of science fiction in it, noting the occasional interesting title and taking what he assumes to be an alien tabloid. He could use a little gossip.

He stacks the books on a table he finds near the center, or what feels like the center, anyway, if the hub and spoke design of the space is to be believed. He's found a new diary as well, and a new phone, and he sets these out too, trying to make sense and give order to what he's gathered. Should he use the first letters of sentences? The last letter of the book? Chapter titles? He left himself a few options. He's already done book titles, he doesn't want to repeat himself. Important decisions, here. He twists around to reach the pocket on the back of the chair and pulls out a thermos. Hot cocoa, no coffee, because he needs to ease back into caffeine slowly. It's perfectly hot, sweet, and chocolately, and somehow the little marshmallows in it have not dissolved into foam.

Leaving the drink at his elbow, he changes tacks and pulls out a different book from the pile, checking the table of contents before he flips to a particular page. He taps his pen against the edge of the page, contemplating its contents, before he starts to take down details of a certain magical Prefect bathroom in his diary.
singthesong: (Default)
[personal profile] singthesong
The Balladeer has been in Manhattan for about a day now, and overall? Yeah, this is not bad. Actually, though he wouldn't be crass enough to say so to Greta, this is pretty great. She was kind enough to help him get set up with these ROMAC people, who gave him a place to stay, a decent chunk of money, and one of these new tiny phones. It had a camera in it too, he'd found, very exciting!

Such things couldn't keep him occupied forever, though, and he spent most of the next morning just wandering the city. Normally he never stays this long in one place - it feels nice just to get out and walk. It's going to take him longer than this to memorize where everything is, but it sounds as if he'll have the time. All the time in the world, maybe.

Eventually, he makes his way back to Central Park. Unlike Greta, he isn't interested in visiting the spot of his arrival. Instead he's standing near one of the paths, playing and singing whatever happens to come to mind. Surprisingly, none of the songs so far have been about death! It's actually very pleasant - and the guitar case at his feet is starting to accumulate some tips. Yes, he could definitely get used to this.
i_jones: lenyia @ LJ (i feel so bloated lately you know)
[personal profile] i_jones
It's drizzling. New York City is wet and foggy around the edges. It almost feels like Wales, except for the soaring buildings and strange accents and the button next to his bed that lets him call cute nurses to his aid. He owes a call to Zach, eventually, the cute nurse who's gone Nightingale on him, to tell him that he left his mobile in Ianto's room. He left it there because Ianto distracted him after he put it down, but, semantics. He thumbs the rubber buttons, wondering if it matters to anyone else that he's being discharged. Technically he's just transitioning from in-patient to out-patient, but they can't very well get him to come to physical therapy once a week if they can't find him once he's left.

He leaves the mobile on his bedside table and buzzes the nurse station. Zach will find it. He wraps his hand around the bane of his existence and pushes himself slowly, laboriously, out of bed. He doesn't mind having a cane, necessarily. It's got a Bond villain sort of vibe. It's more that it's ugly as sin, a plastic tortoiseshell monstrosity with a padded handle and clawed feet. There's no way he's walking around New York with it; he'll need to get a new one once he's released. Stop by the... cane store.

He shuffles past the nurse station, smiling at the boys on duty. He'll miss the steady supply of attractive nurses morally and legally obligated to help him. He won't miss needing to be helped. He stops by the childrens' ward, oncology, psychiatric, Agatha downstairs, wishing well as he goes. Who doesn't like a visit from a handsome young foreign boy? More to the point, Ianto was curious to see if there were any other rifties in the hospital. If there are, they're keeping mum.

He stops by the cafeteria for a cup of tea and a breather. He's never made the rounds like this - he's taken to walking around (or rather, Zach makes him) to gather his strength bit by bit, but only short trips, never to the point of feeling winded. It'll do more harm than good to overexert himself now, they keep telling him, but Ianto's had rather enough of underexertion to last him a good long while.

He returns to his room with another cup of tea. The sterile, off-white linoleum and pale blue curtains are so familiar now as to almost feel like home, and it disgusts him to his core. Someone's left the clothes he arrived with on the bed, neatly folded, just as charred as they were five months previous. He closes the door and sits to dress himself. The shirt and pants aren't bad off, and they've been laundered to lose the smell of ozone and smoke. The coat, however, has been eaten through on the back, the wool patchy and holey around the shoulders and the arms. Good thing he doesn't need it today. None of it fits, of course, and the sick feeling he compartmentalizes into a very deep part of his brain settles in his stomach. He pulls the belt tighter and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to hide their looseness. He leaves the tie off; he feels like a clown even as he thinks about putting it on.

The rain has relented, the haze lifting a little, and Ianto stares out the window, barely filling in the shape of his previous life.
ceciiil: (a reporter's eyes)
[personal profile] ceciiil
Cecil is more than a little overwhelmed by his new surroundings. The move from a sleepy desert town to the busiest city in the country is quite a jarring one, even without accounting for inter-dimensional travel. Plus, it's cold. Not even supernaturally so, just...cold. Outside. Cecil considers himself an open-minded and worldly man, but why would anyone do this deliberately? Ugh.

So after a modicum of getting settled (frankly the prospect of decorating, which his new space sorely needs, had been too much to contemplate on top of everything else) he'd fallen back on a timeless classic. "Drink to forget." Also, what better way to learn the ropes, right? Someone had mentioned the bar, err pub, and it seemed like a nice way to kill some time. Try to formulate some kind of...life strategy.

Of course it's nothing like he'd expected. But the pub is nice and homey, and after a brief dispute with the barperson about the definition of rocket fuel vs brandy, he settles in to do some peoplewatching/life reordering. He's dressed in a smart, casual sweatervest, with the addition of the atrocious yeti coat acquired upon his arrival, and projecting his best air of approachability.
i_jones: (he flexes like a whore)
[personal profile] i_jones
If there were any witnesses - but there aren’t, Ianto makes sure of that, smuggling his equipment out into the Ramble after the park has closed for the night, as close to the rift center as he can get without a boat. As far as rift manipulators go, it isn’t much:: two car batteries, a laptop, and what might be (underneath heavy modification and a liberal amount of cables) two tall computer towers. If he’d had space and funding and probably a lorry he might’ve gone for something enclosed, maybe a homemade Stargate sort of aesthetic, but. Needs must.

He rubs his gloved hands together as he waits for the laptop to boot up. According to his exhaustive mental checklist, all that’s left is a final software check and calibration. It will all check out, of course, he’s spent the two months since he arrived writing and rewriting the software based on Tosh’s work. That was patchy in places, although it was easy enough to fill in the blanks. The rift manipulator itself might’ve been more of a challenge, had he not the blueprints of Torchwood’s original committed to memory. Getting the requisite parts (or their equivalents) was more difficult, but he didn’t take up with Romac for the cushy flat. Though that was a bonus. He would’ve liked to get in with the rebels as well, undercover, maybe, nick some of their rift knowledge and equipment (if any), but getting caught by either side was too great a risk.

The laptop bleeps and begins the checks. For tonight’s test - because he’s hardly going to throw himself into this thing headfirst without a trial run - he’s got his jumper from when he first arrived. If all goes well, he’ll try his trousers the next go around, and if necessary, his shoes. The socks are already gone, disappeared accidentally in a preliminary test to determine the right frequency. They’re in some New York, somewhere, he supposes.

He sets the jumper in its place equidistant from the towers as the laptop gives its final bleep. The dialogue box gives the all-clear, but he scrolls through the results just to make sure everything is within set parameters. He may be giddy with excitement, but he’s not stupid. After a double-check of the equipment, the batteries, and the connections, and quick prayer to Saint David, Ianto initializes the program and brings up the timer. The machine is set to power down after three minutes total, one to warm up, one to run, and one to cool down. He can’t very well come close to turn it off when it’s running, not without lead boots and a tether or three. That gives him a minute to get a safe distance away - very generous for the five meters that he walks, taking up place behind a small tree on the path, but better safe than sorry.

After an interminable wait filled only by the hum of the rift manipulator, something gives, tugging the jumper through the dirt with an unseen hand. It inches slowly at first, then tumbles in jumps and starts, until suddenly, as though buffeted by the wind, it’s pulled through the doorway and disappears into the light. Ianto breathes a heady sigh of relief and chuckles. Some homeless New Yorker in his universe will probably find themselves a nice new jumper. He has no way of knowing for certain if it made it through to the other end, but the rift manipulator has acted accordingly with his calculations so far. That’s as certain as he’ll ever be.

The machine makes a knocking sound and its whine changes, kicking up in frequency. In another minute, it should be safe to approach. Ianto’s nerves are thrumming with anticipation to examine the readings and the adrenaline of an impossible experiment. It’s almost overwhelming, his need to get to the machine, to see the results - every second faster that he works is one second sooner he’ll be home. He almost trips over his own feet. )
i_jones: (wearing a coat yo)
[personal profile] i_jones

 It doesn't take long for Ianto to cave to his dreams. He tries to stay awake, and when that fails, to sleep as little as possible, but he's getting too old to subsist on coffee and adrenaline. When he gets back to his apartment, there's only an hour or so of sun left - while he appreciates the night, he prefers to stay out of it. Faced with the prospect of more coffee and less sleep, he makes his decision quickly.

The sun has long set by the time he reaches the TARDIS - he had to make a few stops first - and the city makes up for it to a degree, but even the lamps lighting the ways of Central Park are little use to him once he steps off the path. His mobile and memory light the rest of the way through the Ramble until he spies the illuminated windows. He knocks quietly with the hand wrapped around the phone, as the other hand is holding a small blue gift bag. "Hullo," he adds quietly, like she doesn't already know he's here, like she didn't see him coming from a mile away, "I've got candy."

i_jones: (i can run forever)
[personal profile] i_jones

Ianto receives the message while he's out scouting for a good cup of coffee - that is to say, something that isn't Starbucks, the other Starbucks, or that Starbucks across the street. The preponderance of sugar and flavor syrups is disheartening, but he's confident that he can find something genuine amongst it all. Hopefully before he loses it. It's not that he's absolutely desperate for a cup or anything. It's just that coffee will calm his nerves a little, help ground him in what is apparently going to be his new home, new job, new life. Even the focused, single-minded search for a good cafe is helping to clear his mind. Rift politics? Pah!

Which is when his mobile bleeps, of course. Just as he's finally made it underneath the small grey awning, approaching the door to the quaint (and crowded) little Swedish 'espresso bar'. Ianto takes the device from his pocket and fiddles with it for a moment, unfamiliar with the interface. On second thought, he shields the screen, ostensibly from the sun but really from the customers in line on either side of him. A message from Topher - just as well he keeps it private.

After blue police box, everything is a little fuzzy. He supposes he must've checked the coordinates Topher sent along, because he probably has a very good reason for sprinting down to the corner of the street and then north toward Central Park, pushing his way through the throng that's slowly crossing Central Park South. Either this way lies the TARDIS, or he's nicked something and blocked it out. The former seems far more likely. 

He runs as far as his spotty knowledge of Central Park takes him: down the long straight stretch of pavement and twisting trees that leads to Bethesda Fountain. Coincidentally, this is also where it catches up to him that he is not nearly as fit as he used to be and he loses his breath, his steam, and his direction all in one go. He stops for a brief moment, hands on his knees, and then checks his mobile again. He's sort of near the coordinates, except not at all, because he has no idea how to get around to the other side of the lake from here.

He continues onward down The Mall, walking now, mind buzzing as his thoughts finally catch up with him as well. He doesn't know which TARDIS he is going to find, or if the Doctor is inside, or if he will be able to do anything other than bang on the doors and shout himself hoarse. But he has to try, has to know. Has to hope. Has to... stop. He staggers down the steps to Bethesda Terrace and comes to a plodding halt against one of the pillars of the underpass, gasping for breath.

i_jones: (up)
[personal profile] i_jones
In the space of one breath, Ianto is thrust rather violently into consciousness. He can't fathom why until he feels the rattle of wet droplets up past his sinuses. Reflexively, he coughs, rolling onto his side to escape whatever liquid he's - he's laying in. He's wet. With that revelation, a cavalcade follows: (his fingers are tingling) he's cold, (did he just hear a duck) he's outside, (where did he get a duck) he's not at home, (he groans) he's still a man.

(There was that one time. It doesn't hurt to check.)

Ianto opens his eyes to assess the situation, swiping at his face with one numb hand. He has not, as tentatively concluded, kidnapped a duck on a bender. Curiosity satisfied, the aforementioned duck waddles back into the... pond? Ianto pushes himself - nope, that's not gonna happen - Ianto rolls onto his back, dumbly taking in the skyline, the skyscrapers, the complete and utter lack of rolling English countryside.

"Fuck," he says earnestly, except it comes out more as a jumble of syllables, because fuck he's cold.

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