The Big Applesauce

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.

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.