bigapplesauce | got a regiment and plan for the day [Open]

Current Location: Wilmot's End
Current Music: March 14

Entry tags:

got a regiment and plan for the day [Open]

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sitting a couple tables down from Cecil is a rather curious archangel. He's been informed that this pub might have a more interesting clientele than the average, and so far he hasn't been disappointed. So, Gabriel is here for more or less the same reasons that Cecil is: to watch and strike up conversation with something interesting.

This guy...well, he's not entirely human, that's for sure. And the coat is an oddity all on its own. That's interesting enough to say hello, at least.

He leans toward Cecil and nods to the furry monstrosity. "Did it put up much of a fight?" Yknow, the giant furry monster that thing is obviously made of.

"Excuse me?" Not in a rude or combative way, in a legitimately confused way; it takes a moment for Cecil's brain to catch up to this stranger's meaning. Funny, he hadn't noticed anyone nearby, and certainly not anyone like this; this person's not exactly human himself, though Cecil would be hard pressed to make a judgment call on what he actually is. "Oh. I'm afraid I didn't skin it myself. But I certainly hope it did." Cecil smiles politely. "I'm Cecil. I'm new in town."

Well, that's...an unusual response, but not an unamusing one. Gabriel smiles in reply. "I'm Gabriel. Mind if I join you?" Actually, he's just going to get up and come over there. He plops down next to Cecil and offers his hand for a shake while having a sneaky poke at the guy's brain. Okay, he's more than a little unusual. "Though the rift, I'm guessing?"

Cecil notices the slight intrusion, but are one's thoughts ever really one's own in the first place? Which is to say, any feeling of entitlement to privacy was surveiled out of him an interminable amount of time ago. He takes the offered hand with enthusiasm undampened by the other man's slight rudenesses. "Yeah, that would be me, through the rift without any warning at all. You too, huh?" Because this is probably not a native of the universe the TARDIS had described. He's reasonably sure, anyway, after giving the man a more thorough once-over, this time with a little more eyepower for spice. Yeah, he's conversing with something powerful, but so far less malevolent than the average barista, so Cecil's not worried.

"Yup, that's me." Gabriel would be very much interested to hear about Cecil showing up in the TARDIS, if a little bit worried about the possible implications. "Been here since January." And hello, yes, he gets a sense that Cecil has some sort of power going on, but he cant tell precisely what. "Is where you're from much different? Have you got aliens?" Hey, it's a guess. Maybe Cecil is part alien.

Gosh Gabriel nobody's been called part aliens in decades. Don't be a jerk. "Well, I'm from a desert town, so it is pretty different. I'm still adjusting to the cold and the lack of vultures." What...a strange question. Like, is Gabriel asking if everyone is aliens there, or just some people? Because both of those are kind of true. Generally people from another universe are considered aliens, right? Well, it's a gray area anyway. "Proooobably? I mean, it depends on your definition of alien. And can anyone truly be an alien when they're part of a friendly and welcoming community? But yes."

Probably? What is that even supposed to mean? "I didn't mean from another country." That's what Cecil meant, right? "More like...space. Or maybe..." He squints at him, trying to get a feel for just what sort of weird he is. "demonic nether-realms?"

That does clarify things a little. Though, Cecil is starting to feel a bit scrutinized. What exactly is this line of questioning in regards of? "Well, one of the many things Night Vale as a town prides itself on is multiculturalism. I would be surprised if there weren't any citizens from demonic nether-realms. I don't know any specific percentages off the top of my head though."

"...Right." That confirms a rather high level of weirdness for him. Though the specifics are still rather cloudy, he's willing to let it go. There will be time for more questions later. "Well, just curious, you know. We don't have space aliens where I'm from. It's all very new and exciting." And sexy. But that might be an odd addition without context.

Let's be real, it would probably be a weird addition with context as well. Gabriel isn't the only one puzzled about the exact nature of their conversational partner; of course, Cecil is a little more circumspect. "What is it like, where you're from? Aside from the lack of space aliens, I mean."

"More or less like this." He considers the differences for a moment before answering. This would usually be the time where he decides on a cover appropriate to the person he's talking to. Only he's not sure what would work best here.

"More...~~supernatual~~ mythological than science fiction. I haven't run into a single God here." He chuckles, the corner of his mouth raising into a fond smile. He's imagining people setting up little temples for the TARDIS and leaving behind chocolate in offering. It's a nice thought. "Some that people might worship as gods given the right incentive, but not the real thing."

Cecil picks up on the distinction between capital and lowercase easily and adopts it with a vengeance, making it something granite-edged and definitive. "There are gods and then there are Gods, certainly. But what qualifies the real thing, exactly? In your expert opinion."

Really the only difference is that he has a giant emotional and physical connection to his God, so he seems deserving of the capital letter. That's not really something he wants to confess to a stranger in a pub. "To...start out a god rather than becoming one, maybe." He's including Kali and the entire Norse pantheon here. They were definitely gods, but not his God. That his definition rules out himself from being a god isn't exactly intentional, but it is appropriate.

Cecil mulls this over, drink in hand. "I'm not sure if I agree with that. Sometimes the best way to be something is to start out as something else. More often than not, probably." Cecil isn't being argumentative, just acting in the spirit of friendly pub debate. "Though some things only become more themselves with time." He shrugs.

"So which are you? The something different, or the something even more you than you used to be?" For himself, he's not completely sure. He was made for a purpose and part of him will always take that to heart. Things have definitely changed, and he's expanded his horizons considerably, but he doesn't think he's changed all that much.

Cecil is a little taken a-back; he hadn't really expected the distinction to be turned around on him, somehow. "That's a good question. Probably the second one, I think? No, it's definitely the first one, I used to be an intern." They were talking about gods, not radio hosts. "So I guess you ran into a lot of gods, back home?" That would be the implication, anyway.

"I was a lot of god back home. They called me Loki, if that name means anything to you." He smiles, always glad to do the (fake) big reveal. "So, yeah, I palled around with a few pantheons."

Ianto enters bundled from his walk from the subway station and heads, tunnel visioned, for a small table farther in the back of the pub. He is on a sacred mission for chips. Hot, greasy chips. And he had a note tacked on his refrigerator about a newly-opened pub; it seemed destiny.

He goes through the winter routine of undressing: coat, scarf, and gloves folded meticulously and set over the back of a chair. That finished, he turns to go order food and does an embarrassingly comical double take at the huge fur coat sitting at the bar. He hesitates, picking up his carefully arranged outerwear. He knows that coat - he's sure of it.

With a casual air, he approaches: "Funny meeting you here for the first time because I've never met you before."

Ianto clutches his coat to his chest like a shield and turns from his bold approach to lean against the bar, staring at the wall of alcohol with cheeks ostensibly red from the cold. He clears his throat. Recovers. Fails. "Er - I - sorry."

After his initial bafflement clears up, Cecil chuckles sympathetically. Poor guy. And what a melodious voice! He notes that down for future reference. "No apologies necessary. I get that all the time." Cecil gestures expansively to a seat, perhaps with the implication that Ianto should feel welcome to it. "Name's Cecil, by the way. I'm pretty new here, if you catch my meaning."

"Yes, I..." gathered, don't say that, that's stupid. "I'm a recent expat, as it were." Forcibly so. He accepts the gracious invitation, grateful for a friendly stranger (a rarity in New York) and takes the seat next to Cecil, allocating another for his coat as he does.

"Ianto," he offers, catching the attention of the bartender to order a glass of whisky and a plate of chips. A meal of true class. "Welcome to the city, then," and he toasts with his newly acquired drink.

Cecil nods and accepts the toast with a raise of his own glass. He doesn't know Ianto quite well enough to pin down the feelings behind his words, but he'd put up good odds that there were less than positive emotions behind that welcome. But then who is really positive about being transported to a new universe against their will? Even Cecil isn't, not entirely. And he is, generally speaking, positive about most things. On that line of slightly melancholy thought, he falls back on routine. You know, asking questions, putting people at ease, interview formats, etc.

"Thank you. So, Ianto," he tries out his pronunciation, "Any words of advice for a recent transplant? I mean to a new city, not like organs, but if that happens to be your area of expertise, by all means."

He's given up hope on Americans ever pronouncing his name right. It's okay. Ianto takes a small sip of his drink and chuckles into the glass, just a little, because it's hard to tell if Cecil is joking or utterly serious and he wouldn't want to be rude.

"Well, let's see." He sets his glass down on its napkin and absentmindedly squares the paper off with the grain of the bar top. "Don't trust directions. Don't go in empty subway cars." Stay to the right, but Cecil probably knows that already, given his accent. Ianto is still struggling a bit. "Be careful in Central Park. Keep your stitches clean and dry."

All very sound, very logical and helpful advice. This one would be even better at giving PSA's than the TARDIS, and definitely better than Topher. The just slightly lilting voice would help people not injure themselves or throw themselves from tall surfaces. Why, he already feels less likely to do so himself.

"Ah, yes, parks are definitely something to be aware of, especially ones with inter-dimensional rifts. That's where I showed up, you know. Well, in a library in a space and time ship, but basically in the park." He's meandered into full radio voice by now. "I was very lucky, the library seemed uninfested, though of course it's only a matter of time."

Uninfested, Ianto mouths to himself, caught between confusion and skepticism, which manifests as a quirk of one eyebrow. Uninfested with what, exactly? Because Cecil sounds pretty confident. And surprisingly informed. But more to the point: "You arrived in the--" He catches himself, clears his throat, and continues at a more discreet volume. Leaning in a little closer, a little lower. "In the TARDIS? In the TARDIS library."

How did he not know about that? No, he's not pouting, he just - okay - he just likes to be informed of things. He takes a significantly longer drink of his whisky. "When was this?"

Cecil shrugs. What's the deal here? "Well, a library's a library. It was the day before yesterday, that I arrived," he thinks back on it, and oh right, he was meant to be keeping a secret, oops. Good on Ianto for reminding him, and he adopts a similarly hushed tone. "But I have to stop and correct myself here. The TARDIS doesn't exist. Ships that travel in both space and time aren't real. Though apparently time travel has been at least partially de-criminalized, and space travel, as I'm sure you're aware, is predominantly a side effect of corporeal existence and so unavoidable for most of us anyway." Ianto seems familiar with the TARDIS, so it's probably okay that he's aware of her existence. But better safe than sorry.

Ianto takes a breath to respond. Doesn't. He slows and slackens a little, a watch unwinding, and stares at Cecil. For just a moment, he almost looks concerned - no, worried - and then he looks at his glass instead, wrapping his hands around it as he silently adjusts a few things internally.

He's read pamphlets and all, adjusting to alien beliefs (not that Cecil is an alien (he thinks)). It's just been a while. It's sort of refreshing, actually. His kind of normal, for once. He finishes his drink and dabs at his lip, winding himself back up. "That's a bit discriminatory, isn't it?" he says at length, spinning his glass in a slow circle on a point. "We travel through time just as often as we travel through space. I should hope. Excepting bubbles existing outside of time, of course." He sets the glass down flat. "And rude to her, besides," he adds, on behalf of time and space ships everywhere. "I hope you didn't try telling her that."

Cecil faces Ianto more squarely in something like shock, gestures run a bit wild. "Oh no, I would never do that. Once she clarified about time travel legality, I mean," he stops himself, not wanting to get off track. "I definitely wasn't trying to be rude. She made me promise not to acknowledge her existence," he hastens to explain. What a terrible misunderstanding! How could Cecil have made such an awful misstep. He would never be discriminatory against non-existents. But, well, it's important to not acknowledge the existence of some things, sometimes very stridently and often. "The TARDIS is very nice, she let me out of the library almost immediately, and gave me this coat, so I wouldn't be cold. The least I can do is deny her existence properly."

Oh, so the coat was her doing. How thoughtful. What Ianto wouldn't give to have been there to see them meet. He buries his laughter under a cough, taps the side of his nose in complicity, and signals for a refill of his drink. It's certainly a valid method of protecting the TARDIS: completely denying the possibility of her existence. And Cecil is so painfully-charmingly earnest that no one will take it for sarcasm and dig deeper.

"I'm sure she'd be pleased," he assures Cecil, relieved. "It's certainly an effective denial." Yeah, that was all a test. Yep. Sure.

His refill arrives concurrently with a faintly sizzling plate of chips, doused in malt vinegar. He savors the smell and takes a reverent first bite, smiling a private smile. Once he swallows: "We're good friends, the... unassuming blue box and I. Can never be too careful about keeping her safe."

"No, of course not," he agrees, with all due gravity. "I've never had to deny anything like her before, but I guess that's New York's famed diversity for you, not to mention the rift. Though she's kind of a shape, and definitely in a park, so maybe prior experience will help there, going forward."

Ianto is really selling him on these chips here (he's not stupid, he's been to Europe, he's cultured) and he makes a mental note to try them at a later date, maybe endorse them publically, when or if he can. "Now might be a good time to mention, I'm a reporter for the community radio news. Or, y'know, was."

Shapes in parks. Check. Ianto is filing away all sorts of interesting information about Cecil in sundry mental folders because he's got absolutely no context for any of it. But he's positive it will come in handy someday. Experience with shapes. Got it.

He tucks into his food with tidy but enthusiastic relish. He'd share but, you know, everything he wants in life at that moment is on the plate, so maybe next time. "Yeah? You've the voice for it." Very... distinct. "Where from?"

Well it's good that someone is. Cecil unsurveiled and unlistened to is basically Cecil gone to waste. In another world, Ianto could probably cut it as Secret Police.

Cecil accepts the understated compliment with a gracefully downcast look. "A little desert town called Night Vale," he imbues the name and description with all the sinister warmth it demands. "Unfortunately tourism hasn't really caught on, so it's not on the map." It really, really isn't. "What about you? I'm afraid I can't exactly pin down your accent." He really does sound apologetic; it's a nice accent, and it really would do well on the radio, or possibly on display in a jar.

"Wales. Cardiff, Wales." Which isn't really an accurate answer, but it's significantly faster than trying to explain his home and his accent, neither of which have been Welsh for quite a while. "Mostly," he adds in deference to that.

He twirls a chip and then bites it, swallowing a twinge of homesickness with it. He has - dare he say it - started to hear just a hint of New York in his words of late, particularly when using Americanisms. This time, at least, it isn't intentional, but it's like trying to stop the tide. When he opens his mouth again, he's gone full valley boy, briefly embracing the accent he's suppressed and modified ever since he moved to London. "I've had to dial back on it a bit for you Yanks, yeah? Mm. For ease of communication."

Edited 2013-09-18 01:56 (UTC)

Yes, definitely in a jar, or maybe a nice vase, it's that melodic. He can hear the home in it. Not his home, sure, but it's like smelling someone's house the first time you visit and feeling a bit overwhelmed. Somewhere below the surface a part of Cecil's mind is filing this accent away in case he ever has to quote Ianto on the radio. He may or may not be successful. "Shame. I mean, it's not like you're speaking modified Sumerian, right?" Cecil laughs and shakes his head.

"What did you do before New York?" He's still pulling from the interviewy question pile, but it's a legitimate enough curiosity. Who survives displacement by the rift, and how?

Ianto smiles vaguely in a way that suggests he gets the joke - which he thinks may be the simplest way to respond to Cecil's non-sequiturs - but stays silent at Cecil's question. There's the whole truth, which would take some time to explain, and there's pieces of the truth, all of which seem sort of lacking. And then, of course, there's a lie.

"I," he starts, stops, laughs to himself. "I... protected Cardiff. The Earth. My Earth. Then I retired. Traveled a bit. Settled down." He scoffs, reaches for his refill (nearly forgotten amidst the excitement about his chips), and knocks back half of it. "That didn't last very long. But nothing ever does."

Cecil sighs a bit himself, at that. "No, nothing ever does. Even the things you think are undying and ceaseless are, when you get down to it, ephemeral and fleeting. It can really get you down, some days." External circumstances have a way of ruining everything, just when you think your life is well and truly sorted out.

"What exactly did you protect the Earth from?" The obvious answer is extra-terrestrial beings, like it's right there in the word extra-terrestrial, but you never know. Maybe one time Ianto flew around the Earth counter to its rotational direction to set back the clocks, or punched a meteor. There's a lot of possibilities.

His glass halts on its arc away from his mouth and Ianto brings it back to take another, smaller sip. Undying and ceaseless things. Indeed. The warm, comforting nostalgia is turning dense and cold in his stomach, a reminder of how far away home really is.

"Aliens," he answers, with absolutely zero consideration of whether or not he should be divulging this information to what amounts to a stranger. He struggles for a second to remember the right word - aggressive? Aggressive aliens? "Bad ones." Then, "And well-intentioned ones, sometimes." And just plain old good ones, occasionally, but he's not particularly proud of that. "Apparently there's a plaque honoring me back in Cardiff. Very sleek and appropriately doleful. So I've heard."

He's rambling now, just a bit, and that (at least) sets off an alarm at the back of his head, a you're drinking and talking to a stranger, stop doing that thing that you're doing klaxon. "Are you..." Baffled, "Are you interviewing me?"

Oh, so it was aliens after all, and not any of those other things. Yeah, Cecil figured as much. Cecil makes sufficiently impressed, agreeing, and melancholic noises, at the appropriate points in Ianto's slightly inebriated narrative. Let it never be said that Cecil isn't an attentive and active listener, when the tables are turned.

Ianto's question catches him off guard, and he looks rather sheepish. "Sorry. Old habits, etc. It's just what comes naturally in a new place surrounded by interesting new people. It's not like I'll get a chance to report on this 'interview' anyway." He scare-quotes the word with just a tinge of disgruntlement; Ianto could have announced an intention to run for mayor of New York and he still wouldn't get to report on it, because he won't get to report on anything. "I didn't mean to pry."

"No, it's not, er, I don't..." He fumbles, shrugs, picks at his chips with less enthusiasm. "I get it. Old habits." Sometimes that's all he is. Setting out clothes the night before, even if he's not going anywhere. Brewing an extra cup of coffee or four. Hiding bad things in basements. Yeah. Old habits.

"It's nice, anyway," he admits stiltedly, with a half-smile that falls into a flat line. "Talking to someone who isn't... a box. Not to be boxist." He holds up his hands defensively, on the off-chance the TARDIS is inexplicably witness to their conversation.

Cecil notes that Ianto seems to be sinking into a state of melancholy, though it was a nice almost-save with that bit about being boxist. Boxist! As if that were a thing. Cecil snorts appreciatively at the joke.

"Well, I'm definitely not a box. Have you had trouble connecting to people here? Who aren't boxes?" He sounds quite sympathetic. "Listen, it's very easy to get sort of...detached. From reality. I mean, the rift already did half the work there for you. That kind of detachment can be dangerous." There's real solicitousness under the PSA-ness. Not to mention a little concern for his own future.

"I'm not..." Ianto waves away the intangible cloud of blatant misunderstanding because come on, come on, he is Mister Attached to Reality. So firmly. Literally bolted to it.

"I've just been busy," he clarifies, speaking a little too clearly to ward off any further miscommunications. Then, "Working." He wavers, starts to reach for his drink again, decides against it. "I work for Romac," he admits, a bit glumly.

Cecil isn't sure that's the whole truth of things, but okay, alright, enough with the prying into the emotional makeups of strangers. Apparently that constitutes 'boundary issues' and he should really not 'report on peoples' personal lives on the radio.' Whatever.

"Oh, that's what I'm hoping to do." Fingers crossed, anyway. "Well, probably not what you do. What do you do for Romac?" His stage whispering is still in excellent form. "Or can you say?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

got a regiment and plan for the day [Open]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject