got a regiment and plan for the day [Open]

[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.

Comments

[ceciiil]

"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."

[i_jones]

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?"

[ceciiil]

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.

[i_jones]

"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."

[ceciiil]

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?

[i_jones]

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."

[ceciiil]

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.

[i_jones]

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?"

[ceciiil]

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."

[i_jones]

"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.

[ceciiil]

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_jones]

"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.

[ceciiil]

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?"