Who: Ianto Jones & Tru Davies What: New meetings and trouble When: Evening Where: One of the bars Rating: TBD
The thudding of the speakers around him shook his eardrums in ways he was sure that eardrums were never meant to be shaken. The song was something dark and ponderous, the beat almost tribal. Tribal. That was a good word for places like these. In the dance room a small distance from the entrance, half-dressed and a few near-nude people revolved and gyrated and thrust to the ceaseless music. His slacks were simple, black, well-fit, but his shirt was a loose and casual magenta affair, not quite blending in with the present atmosphere. He shrugged inwardly. He wasn't here to impress anyone.
He made his way around the main floor and across to the more secluded bar area where it was relatively quieter, and ordered a drink. A Pabst was apparently the best he could expect there. Dragging his hand through the back of his hair uncomfortably in the heat of the harsh lights glaring down from above, he could think of far better places to be. But this was yet another exploration attempt to get a more intimate grasp of the city.
As much as a comfort zone the Hub was, his hope that they could somehow reverse whatever had brought it - and by extension, them - there, had been slowly dwindling over the last weeks. He had settled back into a quiet, unobtrusive kind of existence. Worse for Gwen, he thought, and he hoped that this was as far as the Hub would go, without being yet another skipped dimension away from Rhys, and as complex as his feelings regarding Jack might be, there was something gut-wrenchingly wrong about seeing him just as helpless to figure this one out. So Ianto had been trying to look out for them. Getting them coffee, and what other small things they'd allow him to do.
Given everything that had happened, or rather, not happened, he wasn't even trying to hope for anything now. Maybe it had been too much to expect it, and he had to tightly swallow that thought down. He'd just deal with what came from being here, and maybe it was time to try and put a line under it all.
Which was exactly what had inspired him to meander into such a place out of that comfort zone. Well. That, and the somewhat daunting vision of himself in forty years time, still doing little more than fixing loose panels on the underside of a long-since defunct manipulator.
If he'd had any doubts about blending in with his new surroundings, however, they were extinguished the second he saw two men just along the bar, donned in Miami Vice suits and neon t-shirts, who clearly had far worse fashion problems. Wondering if they had meant to dress like that, or whether the light was affecting their eyes worse than his, he averted his glance and took the time to lift the bottle to his lips. Just a quick one, then he was leaving.